The Sorting Bucket
by Lizzy Lovegood
Summary: Part Eighteen: Superhuman. After a spate of murders, Junior Minister Cornelius Fudge has an "interview with a vampire." See first chapter for full description.
1. Insanity

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Harry Potter . . . but I do own my $1.99 Sorting Bucket!

**Important A/N (PLEASE READ): **For those of you that have read **Distorted Reflections**, you will have seen a note about my next fic, **The Sorting Hat**. This is that fic. However, I realized that I'd have to have a huge-ass hat to fit all of the Harry Potter characters' names in it . . . so I bought a bucket. Hence the name, **The Sorting Bucket**.

To those of you who have not read said A/N, here is the basic premise. I have taken all of the characters' names from the character filter on this site and put them all in a bucket. Every other day or so, I choose two names and write a fic with those two characters as the central players. To minimize annoyance in the search for something vaguely interesting, I will place the genre and the characters' names at the start of each "chapter."

Each time I publish a new chapter, I will change the characters' names the fic can be found under as well. For example, right now it says **Leanne & Bellatrix L.** but it will say different names for each new "chapter" published.

Any questions/confusion – I think it's pretty self-explanatory – just PM me.

Hope you enjoy!

**Characters: **Leanne (Katie's friend from **Half-Blood Prince**) and Bellatrix Lestrange

**Genre: **Friendship/Angst

**A/N: **Possible implied femslash, but you don't need to see it like that.

**A/N: **Dedicated to the amazing Helena Bonham Carter whose performance as Bellatrix Lestrange helped inspire this story.

Also to crapmuffins for picking these first two names. Love you! :)

**The Sorting Bucket**

**Insanity**

"Watch out!"

Leanne watched, as if in slow motion, as a jet of threatening-looking purple light streaked toward her; barely in time, she found herself pushed to the flagstone floor. Cowering behind an overturned gargoyle, she barely registered the horrified screams emanating from the watercolor behind her – the spell's unfortunate recipient.

She had already heard so many today. What was one more to the mix?

This was _insane_.  
>". . . Leanne? Leanne, c'mon, are you listening to me?" Looking both annoyed and concerned, Katie snapped her fingers in front of her face.<p>

"What . . . yeah – what's going on?" Perhaps because of the lateness of the hour, Leanne felt half in a dream-state, as if this were some horrible nightmare she would soon wake up from.

Or maybe _she _was the insane one. . . .

It made sense, she had to admit. Volunteering to fight had certainly been a breach of her usual logic – though she was in Hufflepuff, she prided herself on this Ravenclaw trait. She had planned to leave when the school had been evacuated. True, she had huddled with Neville and the rest of the DA, had cheered for Harry Potter at his triumphant return – _had he _really _ridden a dragon? _- but she couldn't, just _couldn't_, fight.

Not that she was a coward; she would have fought if it had been _necessary_. But look at them all, assembled here. And three-quarters of them Gryffindors! That was what Gryffindors were for, wasn't it? _Daring, nerve, and chivalry _and all that.

No one would miss her, she had consoled herself. One girl couldn't make a difference. No way would she be spotted – one plain Hufflepuff girl – in the tide of students leaving the school.

But then Katie had appeared.

"Leanne, hey!" Wading through the crowd, two older girls by her side, Katie had caught her in a tight embrace. "Great to see you. You remember Angelina and Alicia, right?"

"Yeah, of course," Leanne exclaimed, managing a half-hearted smile.

Of _course_ she remembered Angelina and Alicia – perfect, beautiful, Quidditch-playing Angelina and Alicia. Angelina and Alicia who had been all Katie could ever talk about. Angelina and Alicia whose damned "daring, nerve, and chivalry" had stolen Katie away from her.

She had thought things would be better after they left. But no . . . she had gone and screwed even _that _up. Katie had been Imperiused while they were in Hogsmeade _together_ and she hadn't even _noticed_. Not until it was too late, at least. . . .

"Ready to fight, then?" Angelina asked, tossing her long black braids.

The word _no _on the tip of her tongue, Leanne turned to Katie in a soundless appeal. Her friend grinned encouragingly and, given sudden heart, Leanne found herself saying _yes_ almost defiantly.

Katie needed her. What if she got separated from Angelina and Alicia? What if she got hurt? No, she needed Leanne to stick by her side, stick by her for all the times she hadn't been there. . . .

And she was doing a bang-up job of it, so far.

"Have. To. Move. Come on!" Her hand on the small of Leanne's back, Katie pushed her toward their next shield – this time an abandoned pedestal.

"Where. . . ?"

"To the Astronomy Tower," Katie replied, obviously trying to hide her irritation with her slow-witted friend. "Angelina just sent me a Patronus, that's where the bulk of the fighting is. You-Know-Who's even got _giants_."

Swallowing an involuntary squeak of fear, Leanne wondered how she could possibly have missed something as distinctive as a Patronus – a talking one, at that.

Yes, she was _definitely _cracking up.

Maybe she could just go back. They couldn't be _that _far from the Room and all she was doing was slowing Katie down. But no – now Katie was pushing her forward again, shooting spells over her shoulder as they ran. A body fell behind them but Leanne didn't turn to see who it was.

That sound, too, had become commonplace by now.

Screams and shouted spells grew louder as they drew toward the tower's winding staircase. Difficult though it was to distinguish one from the other, a high-pitched giggling rose above the din. It chilled Leanne to the core

Clambering over chunks of plaster, Katie was forced to stop her breakneck pace to beckon impatiently to her frozen friend. Oblivious to that high-pitched cackle, she was eager to join in the fray.

All the time, though, that horrible laughter grew louder and louder. And Leanne was scared, so scared, she just wanted to go home. Dear Merlin, did she want to go home. . . .

"Leanne, come. . . ."

That was when it happened.

Looking back, Leanne wasn't sure how she did it. She had never been athletic and there were at least six feet separating her and Katie. All she knew was that one second she was standing there, too petrified to move, the next she was pushing Katie to the floor, just missing a jet of green light.

It was insane that she'd done it.

But she didn't have time to analyze her behavior now. Katie, though still alive, had been knocked unconscious by the fall. Leanne wasn't sure how hard she'd hit her . . . but again, no time to think. Wand held in a hand that was barely shaking, Leanne rose to face their attacker, the catalyst of that cackle.

She had the look of a woman who had once been a great beauty but had degenerated into something barely human. Long, black hair tumbled down her back in total disarray while, behind her curls, a pair of dark eyes danced. Not with joy, though. No, to Leanne they looked to belong more to a wild animal than a woman – as if Leanne were the mouse and she the cat.

This then, must be Bellatrix Lestrange.

"You . . . you. . . ." She wasn't sure what she was going to say – call her by name, perhaps? Identifying something granted less power to it. Insult her? Call her a bitch? What would that do against a woman like this? Leanne was sure she already knew.

Leanne had, of course, heard the stories. She had tortured Neville Longbottom's parents into insanity in the First War, she had killed countless innocents – magical and Muggle alike. Nevertheless, she had found herself unable to believe that any human being could be so depraved. Maybe it was just her Hufflepuff naivete coming out in her, but she had thought every human being – You-Know-Who she saw as subhuman – had to have at least a _bit _of good in them.

Not this woman, though. The _Prophet_, in referring to her as "The Dark Lord's Queen," had been right on the money.

This woman, just like You-Know-Who himself, was _insane_.

"You . . . you. . . . What am I, honey? Am I . . . am I mean? Did I make you cwy?" she mocked, crooning as if to an infant or a pet.

"D-don't you touch me," Leanne stuttered, poking her Leanne poked her shaking wand threateningly at the empty air; she wasn't sure what she was going to do with it. Her mind had gone totally blank.

"I'm not _that_ mean, honey. I just wanna pway. How about we play a wittle game, hmm?"

Another cackle, the sounds seemed almost out of her control now.

Maybe she could make a run for it . . . no, she couldn't leave Katie lying there, this woman would murder her. Could she piggyback her, maybe? She wasn't too large, she could probably do it . . . she could just sling Katie's arm over her back and. . . .

Bellatrix, stumbling over discarded rocks, noticed her movement. "Oh, no you don't, honey! For this game, it's just you . . . and . . . ! _Cru -_"

"_Tarantallegra!_"

In that dream-state again, Leanne watched the spell die in Bellatrix's throat, the Unforgivable replaced by still another giggle as her limbs shot out of control in a bizarre sort of dance. It was only as one foot struck a chip of rock, twisting unnaturally, only as she tumbled to the ground, that her peals of laughter became a hoarse scream.

As if the sound had served as an alarm, Leanne suddenly jolted into action. Pulling a slowly-stirring Katie to her feet, she half-pushed, half-carried her down the hall, away from the tower.

"Leanne, what. . . ?" Muzzily, Katie turned to her, showing the scar on one side of her scalp.

"Move, just move." Half-expecting Bellatrix to come charging after them, Leanne and Katie stumbled, as if contestants in a three-legged race, down the corridor. Leanne breathed a sigh of relief as they rounded a corner with neither a limping step or laughter at their backs. Perhaps Bellatrix had been knocked out, as well. Leanne supposed she'd gotten lucky on that count, she hadn't expected the spell to have _that _effect.

No, she hadn't expected the spell to have _any _effect. She hadn't expected that she would be able to even cast a spell. In her entire repertoire of spells, she had no idea where that particular jinx – a childish one, taught to her by an elder student in her first year – had come from.

It was insane.

But, if that were the case, maybe they all were insane.

Insane to go and fight what may well be a losing battle.

Insane to fight for what you believe in.

Maybe, she thought, insanity was just another word for faith.

**. . .**

**A/N: **Love it? Hate it? Just click the little button down there!


	2. An Infestation of Wrackspurts

**A/N:** Dedicated to **mistofan**, the first reviewer! Thanks! :D

Also, to David Yates – or whoever came up with the idea of Wrackspurts actually being real – for their direction of **that particular aspect **of the Half-Blood Prince movie. Rest assured, there are many things I do not agree with in that movie: the Burrow BURNING DOWN FOR NO DISCERNIBLE REASON for instance!

Anyway – enjoy!

**A/N: **Set in the chapter **Silver and Opals **of **Half-Blood Prince**

**Characters: **Madame Rosmerta and Luna Lovegood

**Genre: **Angst/Mystery

**. . .**

**An Infestation of Wrackspurts**

_Splat. _Bright chunks of vomit echoed off of the porcelain toilet bowl.

Hacking and coughing, Rosmerta ran a neatly-manicured hand over her flushed face. Struggling to her feet in the cramped stall, she was nearly overcome by a wave of dizziness. Her turquoise heels slid dangerously on the tile floor as she fumbled for the door latch.

Somehow she managed to stumble to the sink, gasping in horror at her reflection. Eyes bloodshot and hair disheveled, she didn't think she'd ever looked worse.

"Merlin, I'm getting too old for this," she muttered, adjusting several hairpins.

"Oh, don't be so hard on yourself, dear," the mirror soothed.

Stepping towards the door, she had to clutch at her head again as floor and ceiling once more switched position. She _really _hoped she wasn't getting ill, not this weekend; it was the first Hogsmeade trip of the year for Hogwarts and, what with half the stores being shut down, the Three Broomsticks was bound to be full-to-bursting all day.

Not that she minded, normally. She loved seeing the students, so young and eager to experience the world and all its wonders – though, Rosmerta had told them, such _wonders_ did not include underage drinking of firewhiskey – their whole lives ahead of them. . . .

At least she hoped so. Who really knew in these dark times?

With a deep breath to prevent another round of vertigo, she pushed open the door and entered the bar, heels _click-clack_ing along as confidently as she could make them.

"Rosmerta, come join us for a pint?" Seamus Finnigan teased from the table he shared with his friend, Dean. Smiling in what she hoped was a flirtatious way, Rosmerta continued toward the counter where rows upon rows of bottles waited to be served.

She shivered, wrapping her arms about herself, as a blast of cold air invaded the pub, signaling the departure of a half-dozen students, Harry Potter among them. So many went on about how much he resembled James but really, she thought, he had his mother's spirit. Just as with Lily and Severus Snape, he had chosen for friends the youngest Weasley boy, Ron and the Muggleborn Hermione Granger. The downtrodden and the different almost seemed to _flock _to him. . . .

Luna Lovegood, for instance.

Head buried behind the latest edition of _The Quibbler _as she waited for the barmaid, Rosmerta's eyes immediately darted toward her trademark radish earrings.

"What can I get for you, hon?"

Laying aside her magazine, it seemed to take Luna a moment to fully return to reality, blinking several times before fully taking in Rosmerta's querulous expression.  
>"Just a gillywater, please."<p>

"Cocktail onion?" Rosmerta took pleasure in dedicating some of the regulars' orders to memory; Filius Flitwick always took the cherry syrup and soda while Hagrid preferred a pint or two of brandy. That loner, Sybill Trelawney, would even visit now and again when her own supplies of sherry ran low.

"Yes, please."

Rosmerta shot the girl a fond smile before turning to prepare the drink. Eccentric though the Lovegoods may be, they had given Harry Potter the chance to tell his story. What was more, when word had gotten out that the tell-all had taken place in her pub, witches and wizards had flocked from all over to see just where "crazy Harry Potter had sat" and, of course, to hear tasty tidbits of gossip from Rosmerta herself – had he had a "vision" of Voldemort, had he complained of more "scar pains," they asked.

And, alright . . . maybe she had milked it for a bit more than it was worth, but the trade she had brought in. . . . It had been enough to cover her bills and buy a nice new set of robes, her old ones had been getting a bit tatty. It was impossible to get by on morals alone, she reflected, not these days.

"Here you are m'dear." Onion bobbing to the top of the clear liquid, she placed the drink on the counter.

"Thank you," she replied, unmoving instead staring raptly at the older woman. Her already-protuberant eyes seemed even larger than usual in her pale face.

"Luna?"

She started as the girl made a sudden flapping gesture with her arms, as though fending off some invisible creature.

"Luna . . . are you alright?" Rosmerta asked, concerned. As alright as she ever was, anyway. . . .

"You have Wrackspurts," Luna stated simply, as matter-of-factly as one might announce their hair color.

"Wrack-. . . ."

"Wrackspurts," she repeated. "They're invisible. They float in through your ears and make your brain go fuzzy."

"If you're invisible . . . then how can you see them?" Rosmerta asked logically. If the tales she had heard were true – Sybill would go on about Crumple-Horned Something-or-Others once she had had a few sherries – then there was no talking sense into the girl, but she might as well try.

"Oh, they make this high-pitched noise, kind of like a dog whistle, you know. You can hear it if you listen close enough. And you can feel them when they get close enough – I'm surprised you don't, they're all around you." She moved as if to flap at Rosmerta's own ears, but the woman backed away. She didn't need a scene, not when the bar was crowded, not when she was already feeling ill. . . .

If anything, she realized, the girl was sensing her illness, but simply putting it into the context of her own bizarre fantasies. She had heard of empathics before . . . she made a note to mention the idea to Sybill next time she came in.

"I'm sure I'll be alright."

"I've never seen so many before," she said, sounding half-concerned, half-wondering "If it's an infestation, I can ask Daddy to make a tonic."

"No." Rosmerta forced herself not to shout from panic. "No, I'm sure I'll be fine Luna. Bed-rest is all I need. . . ." She did not need Xenophilius Lovegood trying to sell her yet another nauseating product. His Gurdyroot tea was bad enough; she didn't know what this supposed health drink would do.

"But. . . ."

"Move it, Loony," a burly Slytherin growled and Luna was shunted aside. Though grateful for the interruption, Rosmerta sent her a reassuring smile all the same; she didn't need the girl worrying on her behalf.

"What can I. . . ?"

"Two butterbeers." Plonking the silver down on the bar, the Slytherin wrapped a possessive arm around the sour-faced girl at his side.

"Coming right up." Kneeling to grab two bottles, her vision blurred as she grew dizzy once more.

Maybe her brain _was _fuzzy, she thought wryly but laughed the idea off. The thought made her uncomfortable.

Why should it, though? Her memory was one of the things she prided herself on. Why she could remember things twenty years back as if they were yesterday and, in twenty years, she hoped to remember days like this, to tell tales to the children of the children sitting before her. . . .

_But can you remember today, Rosmerta?_

Today? Today was easy. She had woke up, had a quick breakfast, opened the pub. . . .

_And the past hour? What about that, Rosie?_

Serving students, mostly. A blushing Ron Weasley had ordered three butterbeers and Horace Slughorn – she didn't know _how _Dumbledore had convinced him to come back – had come in for several glasses of honey-matured mead.

_And in the bathroom, Rosmerta? What happened there?_

Well, she had felt sick, hadn't she? She'd gone in and thrown up, hadn't she?

_Don't you know?_

Of course she knew! She'd felt sick so she'd had to go throw up. Yes, she had been sick and had had to go to the lav to puke . . . to toss. . . .

_The package._

Yes, the package, how could she have forgotten about the package?

_Don't touch. . . ._

No, don't touch. It would hurt her. Hurt her bad. No, she just had to. . . .

_Give the package to the girl._

Yes, just give it to her. She would love it. It was a gift – a secret gift, a surprise gift. A surprise even to her. . . .

What was in it? Who was it a secret surprise _for_?

_Give her the package._

But. . . .

_GIVE IT TO HER – NOW!_

Rosmerta cried out as her ankle turned painfully in its stiletto heel. Propped on her knees, she waited for the floor to stop moving. . . .

"Hey, we getting our drinks here or what?"

"Here." Gorge rising, Rosmerta grabbed two bottles, scraping them over the counter before stumbling for the bathroom.

She just made it.

_Splat. _More bright chunks.

She had barely a moment to wonder how her body could possibly expel that much – she had hardly eaten anything today – before it struck her.

_Someone was dead . . . and it was because of her._

There had been something dangerous in that package and for some reason – she wasn't sure why – she had delivered it. Whether this recipient had been the intended victim or if it was someone further down the line, she wasn't sure. . . .

_Like Dumbledore._

A chill struck her heart just as soon replaced by a heartening thought. If Dumbledore was the victim, then the package may not have reached him yet. It took students a while to walk from the village back up to school, and in this weather. . . . Why, she could warn them. She could prevent this!

But really, what were the chances that it were Dumbledore? He visited The Three Broomsticks often enough and the tiny village's enchantments were primitive compared to those surrounding the school. Why would the assassin need a messenger to bring a potential murder weapon up to the school where it would most certainly be detected. Yes, the chances were that it was the girl . . . and that she was dead.

Rosmerta leaned her head against the graffitied stall wall, groaning. She had thought these times had gone forever but here they were again, where someone would plot to kill an innocent girl with no compunction whatsoever.

It wasn't like she could really report it, either. With no leads for the Aurors, she would be suspected immediately. She could lose the pub – and, really, who would go to the Hog's Head – even be thrown in Azkaban. Oh Merlin – she wouldn't survive a week there!

She groaned, only dry-heaving this time. There was nothing left to come up.

But could she live with the death of a girl on her conscience? Knowing that she had, unwittingly or not, aided in it, and had not said a word?

_You don't have to, Rosie._

Didn't she?

_Luna was right, your brain was fuzzy._

With Wrackspurts? Right

_No, of course not. You're sick – just sick. Bed-rest is the thing, just like you said._

Yes, she had gotten up early this morning, it being a Hogsmeade weekend for the students. She was overtired and overworked, it was no wonder she was. . . .

_Imagining things, Rosie. That's all._

Yes, she was being silly. She was just imagining things. Being silly.

_It'll be alright, Rosie._

She would go and close up the pub soon. It was bad weather, anyway.

_Yes, but. . . ._

But now . . . the rim of the toilet bowl felt cool on her flushed forehead.

_It'll be alright, Rosie._

Yes.

_It'll be alright, it'll be alright, it'll be alright. . . ._

**. . .**

**A/N: **So, how did you like it? I'll admit, I love Stephen King and I was kinda trying to channel his creepy-ishness here (yes, that is a word!). ;) I hope I succeeded!

I have chosen the two names for the next chapter and they are: **Septimus Weasley **(Mr. Weasley's father) and **Rubeus Hagrid**!

I know Septimus isn't mentioned in the canon at all, but I love the chance to create my own background for characters we aren't really told much about like Rosmerta and Leanne. Let's add that to the list of reasons I love Jo. :)

And, as always, REVIEW!


	3. Pity and Pride

**A/N: **As a child, I was painfully shy, so much so that people thought I had a mental handicap of some kind. Most people would either make fun of me or treat me like I was slow just because I didn't talk much.

Although I realize this was partially my fault, in accidentally turning away potential friends, I do appreciate the people who cared enough and were patient enough to break through my shell and dedicate this story to them.

**Characters: **Septimus Weasley (Arthur Weasley's father) and Rubeus Hagrid

**Genre: **General/Family

Enjoy!

**. . .**

**Pity and Pride**

"Looking for something?" Approaching the bookshop's rickety display table and the large man standing beside it, Septimus hitched his best salesman's smile onto his face.

He was lucky he had convinced Mr. Blott to hire him – his patchy work history did not offer the most convincing of cases – and was eager to prove himself. He could never hope to attract a woman if he couldn't even hold a steady job; nights at the Hog's Head or the Leaky Cauldron, continually mooching off of friends, no longer offered the same satisfaction that they had several years ago.

"Erm . . . yes." Perusing a crumpled piece of parchment, the man ran a sausage-sized finger down a list of items. "Do yeh know where I can find, er . . . _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_? I thought, er. . . ." He lifted a copy of _The Dragon-Lovers' Guide_, looking confused.

"Ah, yes, that's a new Scamander book. Just in a few weeks ago. _Fantastic Beasts_, though, let me see -" Septimus's eyes swept the shop - "that's right over there. All the new students are coming in for it. Do you have one starting?"

"Huh?" Preoccupied with placing the paper back into an oversized pocket, the man was only half-listening.

"At Hogwarts," Septimus clarified, seeing that the man was slow on the uptake. "Do you have a child starting?"

"Wha'?" The man's forehead furrowed in confusion before he burst out laughing. Despite his intimidating size and stature, Septimus couldn't help but notice his unassuming and clean-shaven face – almost a baby face.

"Erm. . . ." Uncomfortable with the man's hysterics, Septimus raked nervously at his hair.

"_I _am!" the man managed to gasp, mopping at his streaming eyes.

"Oh . . . as a professor?" Though he hadn't heard of any openings, this man might be working in an intern position. With his boylike expression, he could easily have been a recent graduate of the school.

"A _professor_? You think I'm a . . . no, I'm. . . ."

"As a student," a voice answered tersely; Septimus started, turning on one heel to face what looked like a smaller, grayer version of the man – or was it a boy? - only a few feet away.

"Dad . . . Dad, did yeh hear this guy?" The boy pointed toward Septimus, still giggling. "He thinks I'm a _professor_!"

"I heard." The man's eyes – the same beetle-black as his son's – crinkled in amusement, but he cast Septimus a hard, appraising look all the same. "Did you get all your books, Rubeus?" he continued, asking the question as though Septimus were not standing directly between them.

Studying his oversized feet, Rubeus's face flushed. "No . . . but I found this." He held up the _Dragon-Lovers' Guide_. "Can I get it, Dad – please?"

"We'll see. How's about we get what you need first, then stop over at Florean's for an ice cream? I'm sure he'll be sorry to lose his best customer."

"Yeah!" The man grinned fondly at his son's exuberance. Placing the Scamander book back on the table, Rubeus lumbered after his father.

"Sir, will you need any help? Sir?" Septimus called. Small though the man was, even by normal human standards, he had such a commanding quality that Septimus couldn't help but feel superfluous.

"No, thank you . . . Mr. Weasley -" he pronounced it _weasely _- "I'm sure we'll be alright." Though his voice was courteous, it still contained that undertone of silent appraisal.

Wondering just exactly what he had done – and hoping he wouldn't be reported to Mr. Blott – Septimus gazed after the strange pair for a moment before tucking the book into his pocket.

**. . .**

Several shiny Sickles glinting in his palm, Rubeus headed off toward Florean Fortescue's for much-anticipated treat. His father watched him, smiling tenderly, before approaching the counter, a pile of thick tomes balanced precariously in his arms.

"Here, let me help you with those." Grabbing the first two texts – _A History of Magic _and _One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi –_ Septimus began wrapping them efficiently in paper and twine. Setting the remainder down with slim, shaking arms, the man watched him silently.

It was only as he reached the very bottom of the pile, spreading brown paper neatly over _Fantastic Beasts_, that the man spoke. "No, not that one."

"Sir?"

The man frowned. "Don't play dumb, you don't look like a dumb young man. I don't want that book." He nodded toward the _Guide_, placed inconspicuously to the side; Septimus had hoped to wrap it and slip it in with the others.

"Oh, don't worry, I'm not char. . . ."

"I'm not worried about the money," the man retorted, almost contemptuously. "I said I don't want it and that's what I mean. Put it back."

"But sir, your son. . . ."

"Would you stop with this 'sir' nonsense, already? Makes me feel old -" he cracked a wry smile as if indulging in some private joke - "my name's Hagrid. Gregor Hagrid. As for my son, neither he nor I need your pity."

"Pity? S- . . . er, Mr. Hagrid, I didn't mean to offend. Your son, he just seemed very interested in animals. I thought it would be nice. . . ."

"He's an eleven-year-old boy, his fancies come and go like the wind!" Hagrid exclaimed, voice growing steadily louder. "If, in a few years, he feels the same way, he can go and buy this _Guide_, then – buy it, mind. Because the last thing he needs – the last thing he _deserves –_ is some uppity shopkeeper thinking that, because of his size, he's simple-minded. He's _not_. Thinking that it'd be a good deed to give a book to this poor, slow boy free of charge, thinkin' he can just 'look at the pretty pictures,' thinkin' it's a nice thing to do. Because it's _not_."

"Mr. Hagrid, please." Septimus leaned across the counter, struggling to contain the situation. "Please, that was the last thing on my mind. I have nothing against you or your son."

"You do, though." Mimicking Septimus, Mr. Hagrid's voice, too, had lowered; it was gentle, understanding. "Whether you think so or not, you _do_. It's one of the great lessons of humanity – someone looks different, acts different, something must be wrong with 'im. That's what you thought, wasn't it? You saw how big he was – an eleven-year-old kid that big, you thought, he must have _some _problem. . . ."

"Mr. Hagrid. . . ."

"Didn't you?"

"Well, I. . . ." Septimus racked his mind for something politic, more importantly something that would get this man out of the shop before Mr. Blott showed up.

His hesitation was all the answer Hagrid needed. "Exactly. Well, for your information, , there is nothing wrong with him. So his mother was a giantess, so what? He's still my son, I still love him. What does it matter that he's half-giant?" He smiled, amused at Septimus's thunderstruck expression. "Yep, a giantess. Bet you didn't guess that, did'ja? Little guy like me . . . never mind, don't matter. . . . Point is, I taught my son to never be ashamed of who he is, and. . . ."

"There's no reason to be ashamed. . . ."

"You don't really believe that, do you? You heard he was half-giant, you looked horrified, like he was a monster. That boy look like a monster to you?" Across the street, Rubeus licked at a large ice cream cone, conducting a conversation with a beaming Florean. He waved at his father and Gregory waved back.

"I don't think he's a monster. . . ."

Hagrid laughed. "No, you don't, I'll give you that. You just think he's simple. Why else would you give him that there book free of charge? Why else, when I can pay? I don't look poor, do I?" He dug several gold Galleons from his money bag, more than enough to pay for the books.

"Mr. Hagrid, really, there's no need." Septimus's ears flushed with his discomfort.

"There _is _a need," Hagrid insisted. "You must know what you do – ignorance is no excuse for cruelty when knowledge can be gained. I don't want my son thinking people only do nice things for him because they feel sorry for him, because they think there's something _wrong _with him. Or nasty things, for that matter." He nodded toward the street again.

Several older boys snickered from the doorway of Quality Quidditch Supplies, watching Rubeus with his cone. Headed toward Florean's, they shoved by him, nearly knocking the ice cream out of his hand; Hagrid was forced to catch a scoop in one huge hand, yelping at the cold. The boys laughed.

"Hey, watch where you're going, jumbo!"

"Look out, it's the elephant-boy!"

Gregory Hagrid's forlorn expression mirrored that on his son's downturned face.

"Aren't you going to _do_ anything?" Septimus demanded. He was struck by a bizarre urge to smash the boy's faces in, to make them feel half as bad as they had treated Rubeus.

"Nothing much _to _do," Hagrid said. "The world will be cruel to him, either way; all I can offer is a shoulder to cry on, not much in the grand scheme of things. Florean is a good man." Indeed, already the florid-faced man had reprimanded the boys and was offering Rubeus a napkin to wipe his hands but not, Septimus noticed, a free ice cream.

"You must think I'm as bad as them. A father who won't even stand up for his own son; a father who won't let anyone give his son nice things."

"No . . . no, of course not."

"Don't try and lie to me, Mr. Weasley, I wasn't born yesterday. In fact -" again that wry smile - "I was born a good many yesterdays ago and I won't always be there to protect him. I've raised him the best I can, taught him the best I can. I suppose all I can hope for now is that in ten years – twenty years, even – he can look back and know that, wherever he's gotten in life, and he'll get somewhere, you mark my word, that he's gotten there by his own merits."

"Isn't that a bit prideful?"

"Ah, I see you're being honest now. It might be . . . but isn't it pride that helps us reach our full potential? Pride in the work we do?"

"I suppose. . . ."

"No, you don't believe me, I can see that." Mr. Hagrid nodded knowledgeably. "I suppose the mind can only take in so much sense before it revolts; so much of this world is nonsense, you know. . . . But know this, Mr. Weasley, just one little bit of sense – no one deserves to be pitied."

"You make it sound terrible, like that."

Hagrid shrugged, face firm with his convictions. "That would just about cover it. They say pride is a sin, but I think it's pity; you only pity someone because you think they're weaker than you, not as good as you. You think you're better than them."

"Doesn't that come to the same thing?" Septimus asked, not sure exactly how he had been drawn into such a conversation.

Emphatically, Hagrid shook his head. "No. Pride comes from a job well done, not from looking down on someone else. And shouldn't everyone feel like that, now and then? With pity, you don't get that; with pity you get things handed to you on a silver platter. And, sometimes, Mr. Weasley, you don't want that."

A dark-haired woman approached the counter and Mr. Hagrid gathered up his packages, heading for the door. The woman smiled at Septimus as he rang her out and began wrapping the tome in paper and twine. He smiled back.

_Sometimes you want to earn them._

**. . .**

**A/N: **Had a bit of trouble with this one, hence the late update. I hope you liked it!


	4. The Benefactor

**Characters: **Moaning Myrtle and Sirius Black II (great-grandfather of the Sirius we all know and love!). :P

**Genre: **Crime/Horror

**The Benefactor**

Curled awkwardly in her cramped U-bend, Myrtle's sigh echoed dolefully through the sewage-filled pipes. A particularly morbid thirteen-year-old, she had often entertained thoughts of death – her lavish funeral, her lamenting friends and family and, best of all, how she would torment those who had made her life hell.

Her funeral had sucked, no one had even given a speech save for the wheezing director. She could have excused the lack of formality with grief-stricken relatives but no . . . they appeared to have forgotten her within the month. She would have haunted _them_, would have never let them forget that cheap-arse coffin, but she had had other things on her mind.

Olive Hornby, for one.

Even that, though, had been ruined. Just as she was settling down, gleefully stalking her antagonist's every step, the Ministry had had her exorcised and sent back to the scene of the crime, the scene of her death.

And she was _bored_.

Once able to chill bones and inspire fear in all but the bravest of souls with her high-pitched shrieking and wailing – bemoaning her tragic fate – Myrtle had found herself denigrated into little more than a walking joke. At best she was a pest, preventing visitors to her bathroom from emptying their bladders or bowels, at worst the butt of one cruel joke after another.

Students had taken to avoiding her toilet while Myrtle had drawn further into herself. Though the Ministry had given her full leave to roam the castle – it would just have been cruel and unusual punishment to condemn someone to a bathroom for eternity – she had no wish to experience another call of _moping Myrtle _or, still worse, _pimply Myrtle_.

Why had she been cursed with this zitty face – _why_? She wailed with zeal, smiling as her shrieks echoed back to her from all directions. This was one of the few things she still enjoyed; if she couldn't wallow in her own death, what _could _she do?

The first year or so, she had taken to flooding the bathroom whenever she got bored, translucent tears flowing just as fast as the faucets. She had enjoyed herself immensely, wailing over Headmaster Dippet and Professor Flitwick's solicitude and Apollyon Pringle's grumbled complaints. They had all been paying attention to her; she may not chill blood, but they were still completely under her thrall, controlled by their guilt. After all, she had been murdered on _their _watch.

After a few months, though, even _that _had grown boring. Her professors' words became less and less comforting while Pringle's campaign to have her banned from the school became more and more real. It just hadn't been worth it.

That left her in a quandary. What was she supposed to do _now_?

She couldn't believe it; it hadn't even been a decade and she was bored to death. That is, if she hadn't already met such a tragic end. An end that no one seemed to care about anymore. . . .

Another grief-filled shriek. Another echo. Myrtle beamed.

Some of the ghosts, from what she had heard, had been here for centuries, almost since the school's founding, including her own House ghost, the Grey Lady. At least the Grey Lady was beautiful, though; her ghostly state didn't change that fact. It was only she, Myrtle, who was stuck with her pimply, bespectacled face for all eternity.

About to work up a nice long wail, Myrtle paused. Tilting her head, she listened to the winding pipes; they had just begun to gurgle again. Had someone used _her _bathroom – a stranger? It had to be, everyone else knew this was her domain . . . and sought to avoid it. But a _stranger_. . . . Puffing herself up to her most imperious, Myrtle zoomed up the pipe, ready to scare some unsuspecting parent out of their wits.

So caught up was she in this fantasy that she had to stop short so she didn't float straight through the ceiling. Glaring daggers, she soared toward the figure now washing its hands at the sink – a man.

But this was a _girls' _bathroom. Boys weren't allowed – they should go use their own toilet. . . .

_A boy. Speaking some odd language._

_ A pair of big, yellow eyes._

This morbid reminder enraging her still more, Myrtle's welcoming shriek was even louder than usual. The man spun around, dripping hands clutched to his chest.

"Wh-who. . . ?"

"What are you doing in _my _bathroom?" she demanded, eyes rolling. "_You're _not a girl!"

Running a shaking hand through his shoulder-length silver hair, the man did not appear to have taken in what she had said. "Who are you?" he managed, his voice faint.

"And what business is that of yours?" she retorted, a feeble imitation of the regal Lady. In truth, she hadn't expected the question; those who knew her would only laugh in her face while those new to her domain – many of them first-years – would inch toward the door, quivering. This man, however, met her gaze straight on. Despite his fear, he exuded an aura of confidence and Myrtle couldn't help but be surprised; her scowl softened.

Perhaps taking strength in her weakness, he continued more confidently. "I merely ask because I haven't seen you around before . . . and I'm sure I would remember."

_Was he _flirting _with her? _

"And you visit girls' toilets often, do you?" she snapped. Slowly, her anger was receding. She studied the olive-green tiles, struggling to hide her silvery blush.

"Touche." He smiled, his eyes crinkling with laughter. Though an elderly man, his innate charm and grace couldn't help but attract her.

_Or maybe he _could _help it. . . ._

It was wrong – she knew it was wrong – but she couldn't help herself. No man, handsome or otherwise, had ever been so interested in her before. Had never _flirted _with her certainly. . . .

"I visit the school often," he continued. "I am one of its top financial backers and one of the school governors. I wish to see how my money is being spent."

"And does it meet your expectations?" Cocking her head, Myrtle batted her eyelashes in what she hoped was a fetching way. She couldn't take her eyes off of his.

_ Big blue eyes. . . ._

"Not if they are keeping pretty ghost girls locked up in bathrooms."

Her blush deepened, she didn't even bother to hide it this time. She giggled. "Oh, they . . . they don't keep me locked up. . . . I just stay here in – in my toilet; everyone – everyone _out there –_ makes fun of me. Mopey . . . ugly . . . p-p-_pimply_!" She wailed, barely focusing on that lovely echo as the man strode toward her, his eyes tender.

"There now, there now, calm down." Her heart leaped as he reached forward as if to cup her face in his long-fingered hand. "There, there, no reason to fret, Myrtle."

_Myrtle._

"How did you know my name?" she asked, eyes hardening.

His mouth formed an _O _of surprise before he gathered himself. "I just visited with Headmaster Dippet today; he wished to address a few of Mr. Pringle's complaints, most of them grievances concerning you. Intolerable man, really." He chuckled.

It didn't reach his eyes.

_Big yellow eyes. . . ._

No, they were blue, weren't they?

She moved away from him, feeling a perverse pleasure as his grasping fingers met only smoke and vapor.

"You're lying."

"Myrtle, I told you. . . ."

"You're _lying_!" she screamed.

His eyes flashed.

_Predatory eyes . . . just like his. . . ._

Whose?

_His._

How could she have forgotten? Memories of her short life had become so fuzzy, one thought slipping into another. It was so hard to pin anything down. But it was easier to forget, easier than remembering. . . .

_That boy._

Yes, Tom Riddle. That orphan boy. That handsome boy. That boy everyone in school had had a crush on. . . .

And he had kissed her. Not out of love or passion, out of power. A need for power

She was weak and he had controlled her, dominated her in that broom closet, if only briefly. Shrieking, she had slapped him across the face. He had looked shocked for a moment – she wondered how many other girls he had done this, too, how many had _allowed _him to do it – before his eyes flashed a bright scarlet.

Scarlet as the blood now dripping from her lower lip. He had bitten here, had marked her as _his_. From that moment, he had owned her.

And she was going to be punished. Those scarlet eyes had told her so. . . .

The bathroom walls seemed to fade around her . . . and now – now. . . .

_She was strolling down Hogsmeade's High Street. It was a miserable, rainy October day - one that matched her mood – she wondered why she had even bothered. Honeydukes was packed and so was the Three Broomsticks, the butterbeer which so many raved about wasn't even all that good. The hem of her robes was soaked from dragging through so many muddy puddles. Stupid school trips, she might as well go back. . . ._

_ But wait – what was that boy doing? What was he doing outside in this weather? But of course, it was Tom, talking to a man outside of the Hog's Head. A man with sleek silver hair and, even from this distance, piercing blue eyes. A package changed hands._

_ "Thank you, Mr. Black. It's very generous of you."_

_ "No trouble at all, Tom."_

_ Blue eyes crinkled in a smile. . . ._

And the day after – hadn't Tom showed up in a beautiful new pair of robes? Robes that several of Myrtle's classmates couldn't stop gushing about? But all she could think about were those eyes. Both pairs. . . .

_Blue._

_ Scarlet._

Both of them the same.

Because this Mr. Black had been more than _Hogwarts's_ financial backer, hadn't he? He'd helped Tom, too. The boy was an orphan, handsome and charming to boot. He was a prime example of the qualities Slytherin House – Black's own alma mater, she presumed – treasured so dearly.

Ambition.

Dominance.

Power.

Enough power, perhaps, to convince Black that what he was doing was right? Enough power to make him keep the higher-ups from investigating _too _deeply into strange happenings at Hogwarts? Enough power to make sure he was never accused, never even suspected.

With that power, how could Black _not _help him? How could anyone?

They couldn't . . . could they?

_Big, yellow eyes. . . ._

And she had been punished.

What was more, her murder had never been avenged. The wrong person had been accused, a Gryffindor in her year, Rubeus Hagrid. How could they possibly think a _Gryffindor _had done something like this?

Because their instincts had been hoodwinked, led awry by this man – this Mr. Black. Because he had the same control over the wizarding community as Tom had eventually gained over him.

But there was no pity in her. Not now. He may not have orchestrated her murder but he had certainly done nothing to stop it.

"Myrtle?" Those big blue eyes were full of concern once more . . . but that wasn't it. It was concern for his own soul that motivated him, not her own. He had come to assuage his guilt, see that the girl he had aided in the murder of was happy – content, trapped in her bathroom – before jetting off again, perhaps leaving this mortal plain for good.

"Get out," she hissed.

"Myrtle, you don't understand. . . ."

"Understand what?" she retorted. "That you _helped _him? That's right, I know, I saw! I can't believe I never put it together before."

But maybe she had . . . maybe it was just easier to forget.

"Please, let me. . . ."

"_Explain?_" she screeched, mockingly. "Explain what? That you couldn't resist him?"

"He was a boy – just an orphan boy. I never knew that. . . ." Limbs quivering, he tugged at his hair; several silvery-white strands came out in his hands and he looked at them, as if dumbstruck.

He was weak.

"I don't _care _what you never knew!" she shrieked, towering above him again. "You _should _have known it! You saw it in his eyes!"

_Those scarlet eyes._

"You were _weak_, Mr. Black! You got by all this time, just pretending, but you're _weak_!"

"Myr-tle," he choked. He was coughing in his agitation, pounding at his chest.

"_Shut up!_" she screamed, barely listening now. "I don't care, I don't care, I don't _care_! Get out, get out – _get out_!"

He collapsed, striking his head on the vanity. Red rivers of blood oozed over the green tiles. Piercing blue eyes darted rapidly around the room, body twitching helplessly. They fell upon Myrtle.

"Hel-" Then he lay still.

Myrtle didn't move.

Water from the still-running faucet dripped from the overflowing sink, turning the crimson puddle pink.

The water washed away everything. . . .

Myrtle began to wail.


	5. An Education

**A/N: **Though I can't say I've really had any teachers that have changed my life, I would like to dedicate this to my fifth-grade teacher, who first believed in me and in my writing. He has retired by now but remains, to this day, my favorite teacher.

**Characters: **Olive Hornby and Gregory Goyle

**Genre: **General/Angst

_Enjoy!_

**. . .**

**An Education**

Thick eyebrows knotted tight in concentration, Gregory moved his quill hesitantly toward the parchment. Black droplets fell from its tip, splotching the neatly-written equations with decimals and division signs.

Face scrunching still further in confusion, the boy ventured a timid glance in her direction.

Fighting the urge to sigh, Olive tapped her wand at the first problem, siphoning off any excess ink in the process. "Just try and concentrate, Gregory. See, look here – twelve times six. Can you do that for me?"

"Erm . . . um . . . forty-two?" Guessing at random, he glanced enviously out at the verdant green lawn. Ever the stern taskmistress, Olive rapped at the wooden table, starting her charge back to reality.

"Sorry, Miss Hornby," he grunted, turning reluctantly back to the parchment.

Merely nodding in response to his apology – she had experienced enough of Gregory's procrastination to realize it wasn't genuine – Olive proceeded briskly on with the lesson. "Come on, Gregory, you've done this before. Twelve . . . _times _. . . nine."

"Ungh. . . ." he groaned in frustration.

"Okay, then,"she continued, undeterred, "let's start with something easy, then? Let's work our way forwards. What's twelve times _one_? I _know _you know this one."

The boy scratched at his scrubby growth of hair. "Um. . . ."

Kneading at her deeply-wrinkled forehead, Olive waited for the boy to puzzle out the basic equation; simply giving him the answer wouldn't teach him anything. Of course, this was under the assumption that such a boy could be taught anything, anyway. She pitied his professors; they were experts in their own fields – Transfiguration or Potions or Defense – while the realm of basic Muggle education fell to her.

Hard though she had tried to instill in him the most elementary rules of grammar and mathematics, all had proved to no avail. The final result: a ten-year-old who could barely compose a coherent sentence and considered his multiplication tables the equivalent of calculus.

"Erm . . . twelve?" he answered finally.

Olive could have cheered but settled for a simple, "Good, Gregory." She had learned it was best not to expect too much.

He grinned in a dim-witted sort of way, stealing still another glance out the window.

"Now, can you do the next one? Twelve times two? Remember, that's just twelve plus twelve."

"Twelve . . . _plus _. . . twelve," he repeated slowly, chewing at the nib of his pen.

Her mind drifting, Olive gazed out at the deep-green lawn, the sweeping drive up to the manor house. Though Mr. Goyle's attitude toward mathematics quite mirrored his son's, the family's wealth ensured that her checks always erred on the higher side. No one would notice if a few extra Galleons went missing and, meanwhile Olive could stockpile money for her retirement.

Saintly she was not but, with her clients she couldn't afford to be. Gregory tested her patience with his sheer stupidity while, thanks to her own pureblood ancestry, that was the least of her worries. She had long circulated among many of the wealthiest – and nastiest – wizarding families.

True, that may be exaggeration. Ernie Macmillan was a good boy and Theodore Nott was tolerable. But Draco . . . oh, Draco. . . .

The only child of the manipulative Lucius Malfoy, Draco was undoubtedly more intelligent than Gregory but made up for that in sheer unpleasantness. She had been forced to tell him off several times for shouting at the family house-elf – a poor, frightened little thing – for which she herself had been lectured.

"We hired you to teach our son this Muggle trash, _not _to raise him," Lucius had informed her. "I would . . . ah, _appreciate _it, if you would leave that up to us."

Olive had conceded, but with ill grace, and couldn't help but wonder if the Malfoys had referred her to the Goyles – and Draco's other "playmate," Vincent Crabbe – as punishment. Punishment or not, Olive had held firm in her beliefs; it wasn't right to kick around a defenseless being, no matter where you came from.

She had simply refrained from informing Draco of her opinions. She had only been hired to _teach_, after all. The _raising _was left up to the parents – parents that, through their values, could shape their child into anything they wanted, good or bad, a villain or a hero.

_Quite a lot of power for just two people. . . ._

And suppose, just suppose, Olive had thought one day, watching that poor house-elf clutch at his filthy tunic, she could do more than just teach by rote? She had done more than enough of that these past forty years . . . suppose now she could actually _educate_? Maybe she could set one boy or girl on the right path . . . maybe she could change a life.

After all, parents may make a life, but a good teacher . . . they could change one.

Maybe if she had had that. . . .

It wasn't as if she wasn't blaming anyone for what had happened, of course; the fault for that was entirely her own. It had been her pureblooded sense of entitlement, her snobbishness, her bullying. . . . There had been no moralistic mentor to set her on the straight and narrow; part of the elite, she had continued, reveling in her own nastiness and searching for someone to share it with.

Foolishly, she believed herself to have found that _someone _in Tom Riddle. Two years older than her, he had seemed – she hated to admit it now – the handsomest and most perfect boy in school. Olive had wanted to do nothing more than make him hers . . . but he had had eyes only for Myrtle Felix.

Moaning, moping, miserable Myrtle.

Olive already detested Myrtle for her glasses and zits, her intelligence and holier-than-thou attitude. The fact that she had, somehow, beguiled Tom simply added more fuel to her fire.

And she had made Myrtle's life _hell_. Something which Myrtle had never let her forget; Olive could still hear her, wailing over the best man's speech at her brother's wedding. . . .

She had gone to the Ministry, had the girl sent back to Hogwarts, consigned to a girl's toilet for all eternity.

She had fled overseas where she had been accepted at Beauxbatons as a professor of Muggle Studies. By fostering acceptance of all types she had hoped to make some reparation for the harm she had done.

If she hadn't teased Myrtle, she wouldn't have been in the bathroom that day. She wouldn't have been killed.

Olive had tried to console herself; Myrtle was the butt of many a school prank, another student may just have easily sent her there.

_But it wasn't another student. It was me._

The bad memories would not be vanquished or ignored. Every nightmare she had been treated to featured Myrtle's staring eyes, her glasses askew, blood trickling from a gash in her scalp. Every night, Olive would scream herself awake.

It had taken her thirty years to finally give in and return home. Home, where she had learned the true extent of the terror that You-Know-Who had wreaked.

A man otherwise known as Tom Riddle.

Olive studied Gregory, lips pursed in concentration – though he looked more constipated than anything – his hulking frame and nasty expression. She thought of his unfortunate affiliation with Draco Malfoy. . . .

"Twenty-four?"

It took her a moment to realize what the random number was in answer to . . . and another to determine whether it was the _right _answer.

"That's right, Gregory. Now, we know that twelve times _two _is twenty-four, right?"

"Uh-huh."

"But we want twelve times _six_. What's the difference between six and two? Six _minus _two?"

"Erm . . . uh – four?" Gregory looked shocked at being asked to calculate so quickly.

"Right." She nodded, actually smiling now. "So, to find your answer, you just need to add twelve to twenty-four _four _more times. Remember, twelve _times _six is just twelve plus twelve plus twelve plus twelve plus twelve plus twelve. Multiplication just speeds things up."

"Oh."

"Do you think you can do that for me? Twelve times six?" she prompted, taking in his glazed eyes and relaxed expression.

"Erm . . . uh, yeah, I guess." Pulling a spare piece of parchment toward him, he reluctantly began scratching out the numerals.

Olive supposed that was the best she could hope for. At least he was _trying_. At least he wasn't refusing to learn, wallowing instead in his own ignorance.

Of course, she didn't know what the next seven years would bring – again she surveyed his size, his bulging muscles – he could easily become the mirror-image of his father. A man with all brawn and no brains. A man living off of Lucius's charity.

He could become another Olive. She knew from experience, bullying was just a lesser form of despotism.

And Draco . . . he could become another Tom.

But this time, she would be able to say she had done something. She hadn't just stood by and let it happen. She hadn't run away when things got tough. She had only been hired to teach but she had educated, too. She may have taught them spelling and addition, grammar and subtraction, but had also educated them. Educated them in the meanings of kindness and patience and encouragement. . . .

Her patience may have frayed with Gregory now and again, but she had tried. She had _tried _and hoped that it would rub off, just a little.

Just enough to make a difference.

Gregory was still working. Olive waited to see the answer he'd come up with.

**. . .**

**A/N: **I had a bit of writer's block on this one so let me know how you liked it! From my Stats page, I know this story doesn't get any hits but if whoever reads this could just leave a short review, it would really make my day. :)

**A/N: **Has anyone gotten into Pottermore yet? I just got in today and can't wait until the beta's up and running! My username is GlowWillow8 – they don't let you choose it – so let me know if any of you have gotten in yet.

It makes me so happy, seeing the Harry Potter community so excited and united over something again!


	6. Bits and Pieces

**A/N: **I had a bit of trouble with this one, since Benjy Fenwick died before Dennis was even born, and I apologize for the tenuousness of the connection between the two "central" characters. Still, I'm glad things came out the way they did, this is something that I needed to write.

**A/N: **Dedicated to **Kylie **and **tricks-meuler **for their reviews of last chapter. Thank you guys so much!

**Characters: **Dennis Creevey and Benjy Fenwick

"_. . . Benjy Fenwick, he copped it too, we only ever found bits of him . . ."_

_~Alastor "Mad-Eye" Moody, Order of the Phoenix_

**Genre: **Angst/Family

_Enjoy!_

**. . .**

**Bits and Pieces**

The only sound the steady _click-clack _of her heels, Madame Pince stalked silently through the shelves. Claw-like digits curled protectively around a large pile of returned texts, she made sure to glare pointedly at Dennis as she passed.

Dennis ignored her, well-used to the routine by now. Already reproachful of those who dared to touch – or, still worse, to _check out_ – her precious books, the Battle of Hogwarts had only added to the librarian's paranoia. In the past year, half of the library had been reconstructed but there was no replacing the books – some of them several centuries old – that had been either destroyed or lost in the final battle. Voldemort's defeat paling next to such desecration, Madam Pince had been absolutely apoplectic with rage.

Her anger had not lessened in the past year and, though Dennis had become a frequent visitor to the library she never failed to greet him with her trademark look of hatred and suspicion.

Flipping the book's page with unnecessary force, Dennis continued reading, paying no heed to the woman's sharp intake of breath. He had as much a right to be here as she did, this was his sanctuary as much as it was hers. What with this weekend's non-stop celebrations, he would be sure to be left alone here. They were all in the Great Hall now, probably, stuffing their faces; rumor had it that Harry Potter would even be showing up later to give a speech, to pay tribute to the dead. . . .

Another turn of the page. Another stifled hiss.

No wonder, Dennis checked his watch, only another hour until the library closed. If the feast hadn't let out yet, he might be able to hole himself up in his dormitory. Otherwise, he'd have to find some empty classroom; he didn't want to be dragged into the festivities.

His roommates, of course, would keep an eye on him until his head hit the pillow – every second if they could – and he would have to think up some lame excuse to get away. But it had become harder and harder as of late; someone always volunteered to go with him, as if he might slit his wrists over a bathroom sink or hang himself from a rafter.

Even his own parents . . . they had tried to send him to a therapist but, after a few sessions – sessions where he had uttered less than a dozen syllables – they had given up.

He knew they meant well – everyone always meant well. He knew they just wanted to help.

The problem was, he didn't want it. Didn't _need _it.

Returning to the school, tossed like a cork in that wave of reinforcements, Dennis had been unable to avoid the names of the dead that trickled through the crowd. . . .

Remus Lupin – he had been a professor the year before Dennis came – and his wife, Tonks, new parents of a now-orphaned son.

George Weasley was a wreck, he had lost his twin brother in the battle; the redheaded family kept a constant vigil over the grief-stricken boy. He, at least, deserved it. Fred Weasley _deserved _their grief.

His brother didn't.

The Weasleys had known what their son was getting himself into; Fred _himself _had known what he was getting into. He had known what he was doing.

His brother hadn't.

Colin had been nothing but a bloody _idiot_.

_I'll catch you up, Dennis, _he had told him, face flush with excitement. _I dropped my camera – gotta go back and get it._

Dennis had told him not to be stupid, that he could get a new one. Was an old camera worth his life? Did he think the Death Eaters were going to pose for a photo op?

_I'll catch you up. Go on. . . ._

And Dennis had gone on, unthinking. Colin had forgotten the camera that he took with him everywhere? The camera he never failed to pull from. . . .

_His pocket_. That pocket that had been half-torn open by the strength of a curse, sending that most-prized possession crashing to the floor, lens shattering into a million pieces.

Not only had he been an idiot, he had _lied_. It hadn't been like Fred – everyone had known what _he _was getting into. They would have been fooling themselves otherwise. But Colin, he had snuck off, lying to his own brother so that. . . . What, he could join in the fray, fight the good fight?

No. So that he could take bloody _pictures_.

Though the lens had been destroyed, the film was still intact and, curious, Dennis had had it developed. He wished he hadn't; he had wanted to believe that Colin had died fighting, wand in hand.

Chaos had assaulted him – students running, fighting, lying on the ground, wounded or dead Dennis couldn't tell. A few featured glimpses of that elusive trio, doing . . . whatever it was they were doing. Saving the world one more time. Maybe Colin had been trying to figure it out, he had always deeply admired Harry.

_Maybe he was trying to help. . . ._

But if that were the case, why hadn't he fought? Dennis scoffed, his breath catching in his throat. No, his brother had been more concerned with getting a good photograph – recording it for posterity – than his own life. Indeed, the final photo in the bunch contained nothing but a green flash of light. So concerned in preserving those moments had lost him those few crucial ones of his own. He could have dived out of the way, could have Disarmed his opponent before he even began that fatal curse. . . .

Those seconds had been wasted. Wasted on a few stupid photographs, photos that depicted unimaginable horrors, photos that no one should want to look at again – Dennis certainly didn't.

And really, they were so easy to destroy. A few flimsy bits of paper, that was all. So easy to tear up, to throw them in the fireplace and watch them burn. To destroy those snapshots – those pieces of time – forever was to destroy the time his brother had wasted.

He didn't want to remember it, _refused _to remember it. His brother hadn't been a war hero, he had been a stupid photographer – a stupid photographer who had lied to his own brother. There was no heroism in snapping pictures.

And to destroy the camera? To smash that godawful machine, to pound it against the floor until it was nothing but a few bits of useless metal? That was to forget his brother forever.

Or so he had hoped.

He had snapshots of his own.

Colin, babbling on about his magical academy – his amazing first year there – while he seethed with jealousy. _You'll be there in a few years, too, Dennis! We'll have so much fun together! _There had been no doubt in his mind.

Colin, tightly embracing him as he joined the Gryffindor table. _I knew you'd make Gryffindor, Dennis, I just _knew _it!_

Colin, mastering spells in that illicit organization, Dumbledore's Army . . . his face when his first, indistinct Patronus developed, as excited as a child on Christmas Day. _Did you see that, Dennis, did'ja? _Immersed in his own incantation, Dennis had granted his brother an encouraging grin. Colin had always been trying to impress him.

_Was that what this had been? Was that why he did this? For me – to show _me _what bravery is?_

Another snapshot. Colin, eyes glazed, shattered camera beside his rapidly-stiffening corpse. Bits of glass littered the floor and Dennis was careful to skirt them. They taunted him, those pieces, bits of his brother's life wasted, reduced to mere bits and pieces – mere snapshots.

Tiny words fuzzing before his eyes, Dennis viciously flipped to the next page. He could care less if it tore; he could easily reduce that to pieces, too. What was so important about remembering, anyway? About posterity? Only painful to recall, it did no good. Snapshots couldn't bring back the dead. Bits and pieces. . . .

_. . . were all that was found of twenty-three-year-old Benjamin Fenwick. Some hold that Fenwick went into hiding after such a brutal confrontation but it is widely believed that the perpetrator – rumored to be imprisoned Death Eater, Evan Rosier – cast a spell to largely dispose of Fenwick's remains. Though human, these acts truly show the inhumanity of You-Know-Who's followers. To reduce another human being to bits. . . ._

Morbidly, Dennis couldn't help but wonder which bits they had been. Fingers? Toes? The tip of his nose? He skimmed the page, searching. . . .

_After You-Know-Who's defeat, the Ministry undertook a reconstruction project. . . ._

There was nothing. Benjamin Fenwick was nothing more than a statistic, a means to prove the Death Eaters true _inhumanity_. They had reduced a man to bits, refused his family even the _small comfort of an honorable burial_.

And the book, too . . . its author may not have cast the curse but. . . . In refusing to acknowledge the person this Fenwick had been, hadn't he shattered his memory to bits?

Had he had brown hair or blonde? Was he married or a bachelor? Had he died a hero or ignominiously – brushing his teeth or sitting down to a meal? Or, perhaps, snapping pictures? Fingers twitching, Dennis felt a strong urge to simply tear the page in half. Destroyed or whole it would give him the same amount of information.

Did the Fenwicks have their own snapshots? Maybe, he thought, it was simply easier to reduce their – husband, brother, son – to bits and pieces.

But the bits and pieces were always there. They could never be entirely swept away. They were shards that could cut at your heart.

Like shards from a broken camera lens.

**. . .**

**A/N: **Hope you liked it! Please review and let me know!


	7. Perfect

**A/N: **I wrote this in a kinda odd style. Let me know how you like it!

**Characters: **Druella Black and Cygnus Black – the parents of Bellatrix, Andromeda, and Narcissa

**Genre: **Drama/Romance

_Bon Appetit!_

**. . .**

**Perfect**

Caterers have been hired, flowers arranged, photos taken.

Bridesmaids and groomsmen have been selected, the honeymoon has been booked.

Family and friends have been seated, exorbitant outfits exclaimed over.

The organist has arrived and the Bridal March is playing.

And here comes the bride. . . . Look at her, isn't she gorgeous in those ivory dress robes, beaded with diamonds – those must have cost a fortune! - in that demure, filmy veil. Isn't she beautiful? Radiant? Stunning? Isn't she just the perfect match for Cygnus?

He certainly seems to think so! Look at him, he can't take his eyes – doesn't he have beautiful blue eyes? – off her. Strange to see, isn't it? With his background, his charm, his _looks_, he could have had any girl he wanted. From any family he wanted. _Why _he chose . . . but then, just look at her. Common or not, she's beautiful. Can't really blame him, can you?

Oh, but he'll teach her manners, certainly. Look at her, half-gliding in her flowing gown, she's already learning. She'll have to. Matches like this don't grow on trees – just look at her father, he's practically _skipping _down the aisle – and Cygnus. . . . Why, he has a reputation to uphold. Can't expect a man like him to have a wife from just anywhere. She has to have certain _breeding_. Or at least attest to it.

And just look – she's doing a spectacular job already. The perfect young bride. Watch her mount the steps, regal as a homecoming queen – and in those heels, too! - watch him grasp her slender forearm to pull her toward him. Watch them turn gracefully to face the tufty-haired old wizard already reciting the vows.

"Do you, Cygnus Pollux, take Druella Evanna to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do."

"And do you, Druella Evanna. . . ?"

The question is hardly necessary. Just look at the pair of them, aren't they perfect? Look at them, gazes locked. Watch as Cygnus slips that gold circlet – such a beautiful ring! - over her slim finger. Watch as, at long last, he brings her in for a kiss.

Yes. Perfect.

Everything is perfect.

**. . .**

Pickles and ice cream have been consumed, crying jags have gone unnoticed, a new, voluminous wardrobe has been purchased.

Gifts have been unwrapped, countless bonnets and mobiles exclaimed over.

Names have been chosen, crossed out, and decided upon.

The Healer has been called and the contractions have begun.

Look at the young bride – a young mother now – her half-naked body sheened with sweat, silken hair in disarray. Is this truly Cygnus's blushing bride? Do you hear her scream and moan and curse? How Cygnus would be revolted if he could hear. . . . Do you see her eyes – sultry eyes that, to hear Cygnus talk, bewitched him the first time they met – now fill with terror?

Her dignified airs have gone, to be replaced by pure petrification. Have you heard her talk? Have you heard Cygnus joke? She thought it would be all fun and games – a whole family to fuss over her growing belly, a baby to keep her company during Cygnus's absence. Consumed by motherhood, she had actually forgotten to prepare – or to even order the house-elf to prepare, even that lowly creature had been inducted into her ranks – dinner for her husband. Cygnus had taken it all in stride, of course – the perfect husband for the perfect wife.

Ripe for ribbing from friends and family those first few months of billowing belly, as of late she had turned unpredictable. Entertaining her in-laws one moment, she could be sobbing over her tea the next. Wrinkles had etched themselves into her fair complexion as her stomach distended still further. I'm too young for this, she must have thought. Can't you see, it's in her very expression? Much too young. . . .

Aren't we all, though? That's the price for any Black woman. Innocence, in the face of such power and prestige, is nothing but an inconvenience.

But she's already learning that, isn't she?

Look at Irma locking eyes with her daughter-in-law, squeezing her hand, not to encourage but to educate. This is what needs to be done.

"Push, Druella, _push_," the Healer urges, bent between her patient's splayed legs.

Watch her eyes harden. Watch her face purple with exertion – or is it some bizarre rage? - watch her manicured nails claw the sweat- and blood-stained bedspread as she screams. . . .

. . . and screams. . . .

. . . and screams. . . .

But wait . . . is that the mother or the child? Squalling as loudly as the one who bore her – funny, isn't it, the way these things get mixed up? – her own face mottled with rage, an infant has entered the world. An infant girl.

Look at Druella, still half-dazed from labor, even now holding out her arms for her daughter. Already performing her motherly duties, she brings the child to her breast. Such a perfect mother. . . .

"Bellatrix," she murmurs, kissing that bright pink head. "Beautiful Bellatrix."

But those are more than a mother's fond musings. Look at the child, already the spitting image of her mother with those hooded eyes that black fuzz of hair. Won't she be such a charmer, such a stealer of men's hearts?

Isn't she perfect?

Here enters Cygnus, though. The husband. He will dispel all uncertainty. Look at him, bending over his wife and child.

Is he disappointed over the sex, do you think? That he has not produced a male heir?

_No._ No, look at him, kissing first his wife, then his daughter – _beautiful Bellatrix_. Look at him, grinning as wide as any proud father.

"Isn't she beautiful. . . . Isn't she perfect."

Yes. Perfect.

Everything is perfect.

**. . .**

Caterers have been hired, flowers delivered, the guest-book signed.

Pallbearers have been appointed, a casket and headstone chosen.

Family and friends have been seated, exorbitant outfits exclaimed over.

The organist has arrived and the funeral dirge is playing.

And here they come, six wizards in their best robes – don't they look so handsome? - muscles straining as they support the casket from hearse to grave. Its final resting place. The priestly old wizard begins to speak as dirt rains down upon it.

A shame to dirty such a lovely rosewood, isn't it? Seems a waste of money . . . and what with the plush interior. . . . Comfort for a corpse, imagine . . . then again, this is the world where Muggle Protection laws are passed daily. Pointless to expect common sense, really. . . .

Especially from Cygnus. Just look at the poor man, handsome as ever but so _serious_. Look at those beautiful blue eyes, now filled with grief, that once-roguish face so distressed. Can't blame the poor man, really. _He _was the one who found her after . . . well, after. . . .

She had us all fooled, didn't she? With her beauty, with her poise. With her sheer Blackishness. Wasn't she perfect? The perfect match? Who would have thought. . . ?

Heard her family had a history of it, too. Heard her mother was locked up in St. Mungo's for a short while. Would have been smarter to do that, don't you think? Before she could spread it herself? Spread that . . . whatever it is, to her own offspring? To Bellatrix, Andromeda, or Narcissa? Who knows what will happen now?

Damned selfish bitch.

Leaving her family in the lurch like that when things momentarily became _too much_. As if _that's _an excuse. She was a Black woman, wasn't she? She knew what was expected. She was learning.

But she jetted off anyway.

Look at Bellatrix – beautiful Bellatrix – grasping her Gran's hand and glaring balefully around the room with those eyes, her mother's eyes. Can't blame her, though, can't blame her. Poor girl, only six years old and her mother abandons her. . . .

Look at Narcissa, only a toddler, cradled in Walburga's arms. Poor dear, she'll never even know the woman.

And Andromeda . . . oh, poor, poor Andromeda. Doesn't she seem only half-there? Wouldn't be surprised if her mother spread _something_. . . . Not that it's her fault – no, no. . . .

All an accident of fate, her coming in like that with Cygnus bent over her mother. The mess . . . why, it would have upset anyone, let alone a four-year-old child. Can't blame her, can't blame any of them, really.

Look at Cygnus, holding to Andromeda like a life-preserver. Poor man, poor man. Do you suppose she's what drove him to make the funeral open-casket? To make sure the girls had no grisly last memory of their mother?

They did a wonderful job cleaning her up, didn't they? Did you see her? Every inch the blushing bride, face smooth and unwrinkled, stiff under Glamour Charms. And her robes . . . weren't they the ones she wore for her first anniversary? Of course they had to be let out a bit, but otherwise . . . beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.

Perfect.

And Cygnus, it must have been for him too. Look at him, shoulders shaking. He needed this. He needed closure. Now he will – _should_ – feel free to remarry. Look at the girls, clustering around Irma and Walburga. They really do need a mother.

Look at him, he's still a decent catch. A great catch. If he would just perk up, smile a bit. Look at the young women, all dressed in their finery – and aren't their robes so low-cut! - cooing over him.

Watch as one separates from the gaggle, a curvy blond woman, sidling up to Cygnus. Isn't she beautiful? Watch as she squeezes his hand, leans close to whisper a condolence in his ear. Isn't she sweet?

He certainly thinks so. Look at him, returning the squeeze, pulling her closer. He can't take his eyes off her. Aren't they the perfect match?

Yes. Perfect.

Everything is perfect.

**. . .**

**A/N: **In case any of you were unsure **Irma **is Cygnus's mother and **Walburga –** Sirius's mother – is his sister.

All the information I got is from the HP Wikipedia.


	8. Don't Be Afraid of the Dark

**Disclaimer: **Along with Harry Potter, I do not own the Guillermo del Toro film **Don't Be Afraid of the Dark**. You know, just in case you were confused. ;)

Anyone going to see that, by the way? It comes out this Friday and looks totally creepy. And the title is where I got the inspiration for this chapter.

**Characters: **Amy Benson (a girl in Tom Riddle's orphanage) and Amycus Carrow

**Genre: **Horror/Angst

_Enjoy!_

**. . .**

**Don't Be Afraid of the Dark**

"Fraidy-cat."

The schoolyard taunt, barely audible above the din of the crowded canteen, sent a chill down Amy's spine. Looking up from her styrofoam tray – a ham-salad sandwich, a baked potato, a carton of milk – she turned to face the speaker.

"I'm sorry?" She spoke politely enough but could not hide her curled fists, nails digging into the skin of her palms. She had long ago etched marks there – small crescent-moons - proof of an eternal struggle with her most primitive urges.

To scream. To bolt. To find the light.

She couldn't go back to the dark.

"Fraidy-cat," he repeated, giggling wheezily. Short, stout, and perpetually unshaven, she knew him to be a fairly new addition to the hospital. He and his sister – Alexis or whoever . . . no, Alecto, that was it – usually hung around together. The man, he had another odd name, too – another _A_, she thought.

"What are you talking about?" she asked, somewhat concerned. This man, whatever his name may be – Ackley, Anubis, Amycus? - was obviously confused. In the decades spent here, she had – impossible as it seemed sometimes – met patients even worse off than her. She tried to help them when she could, but many . . . many were too far gone. Lost in their own minds. Dominated by the voices they heard there.

At least she only had the nightmares. The voices usually left her alone. Until this. Until. . . .

"Fraidy-cat. I hear you at night, fraidy-cat." He crooned the words, as if to a lover.

Compulsively, Amy grasped at the table, taking comfort in its solidity. She was here. She was safe.

_My pills. I need my pills._

Her eyes scanned the tray. The sandwich. The potato. The milk. The pills . . . were gone. She had taken them the instant she'd received them. It had worked great at first, an anesthetic to the past, but now . . . now, they did barely anything. So little that she didn't even notice the effects.

What was more, the doctors refused to up her dosage. They said they already had more than enough. They said they didn't want her to become reliant on them – it was for her own health. They said she needed to fight her own battles.

_I'm an old woman, I've been fighting my whole life. Don't I deserve a rest now?_

Apparently not.

The man was speaking again, this time in a high-pitched squeak. "Stop it, stop it, Tom . . . turn on the light, I don't like the dark. I don't like it, Tom. I wanna go back . . . please let me go back . . . Tom, don't hurt 'im, Tom don't. . . ."

_ ". . . hurt 'im, please don't hurt 'im, Tom! Stop it, _stop_ it!"_

_ She saw Tom's eyes gleam – the only light in this impenetrable darkness – taking in her tear-stained face, Dennis's writhing body. A flash of ivory as his lips twitched in a smile – more of a leer, really._

_ "Let 'im go, please, let 'im go!"_

_ Dennis continued to scream. The sounds echoed off the cave walls, before fading to nothingness further down the tunnel. Amy prayed someone would hear them, anyone – Mrs. Cole or Mrs. Evans or even cranky, old Mrs. Smith._

_ No one did._

_ "Stop it, I said, _stop_! I'll get Mrs. Cole, I swear I. . . ."_

_ But she couldn't leave Dennis. She just couldn't. Two years younger, he was like a brother to her. He was the whole reason she had agreed to explore the caves – she didn't trust that Tom Riddle._

_ Well . . . that and he'd called her _fraidy-cat_._

_ She hated that name. And what was more, Dennis knew it. How could he call her that . . . _her_, his big sister? The girl who stomped on cockroaches and checked for monsters under the bed?_

_ The girl who could save him from anything – except this._

_ "_Stop!_ God, please, please . . . hurt me – hurt me, instead! God, just don't hurt 'im! Don't hurt Dennis. . . ."_

_ Another flash of his eyes._

_ Then she was screaming too._

_ Dennis was sobbing._

_ Tom was laughing. All she could see were those gleaming eyes. Hungry eyes._

_ God, it was dark. . . ._

_ But what was that, making its way up the tunnel? She could barely see it but, in the midst of such pain, felt the need to fixate on something. Was it . . . human? It looked it, shape and size-wise. A lost explorer, maybe?_

_ Why did its hands hang so stiff at its sides, though? Stiff as boards. Why was its walk as rigid as a soldier's? And its eyes. . . ._

_ Its blank dead eyes._

_ A dead man was standing there. Walking straight toward her._

_ She screamed, though the pain had stopped, fumbling for Dennis's hand in the darkness, and then they were running . . . running, running as far as they could get. . . ._

_ But Tom's laugh was right behind her now. And the dead man, too. Or were they just echoes? Shadows? Her own nightmares come out to play? Hard to tell, so hard to tell . . . everything was so dark. . . . Where was the exit . . . where _was_ it?_

_ Dennis was crying._

_ She couldn't find it and Tom was right behind her now. His pet corpse, too. Dear God, where was the exit, where was the _light_? She couldn't find it. Where was it? Where. . . ?_

". . . is it? _Where is it?_" Heedless of her spilled milk, her soggy sandwich, Amy clawed fruitlessly at thin air. She couldn't see . . . God, she couldn't _see_!

She was crying along with Dennis now.

Someone was laughing – _Tom? _- a high-pitched, wheezing giggle. Who was it? She couldn't see . . . she just needed to find the darn. . . .

". . . _light_! God, God, where is it! Help me! Help, hel. . . ."

"Amy, Amy, you're alright. . . . Calm down, Amy, calm down. . . ."

Light enveloped her in a sea of white uniforms and fluorescent lighting. She had found it . . . she was safe now.

But the laughter. It was still there. Who. . . ?

"Deep breaths, Amy, deep breaths. . . ."

But there he was. That man with the odd _A _name, still giggling and wheezing, pointing like a bully at the playground.

"Fraidy-cat! Fraidy-cat's afraid of the dark!"

Amy shivered.

"Amycus." A nearby nurse placed a hand on his arm, ready to restrain.

He giggled, shrugging her off. He started toward her . . . just like the dead man. The dead man in the dark.

"No need to be afraid, fraidy-cat. Won't do you any good, fraidy-cat, you gotta get used to the dark. He's coming back. . . ."

"_Amycus!_"

A burly orderly grabbed him around the middle, forcing his hands behind his back.

"He's coming back, fraidy-cat! He's coming back for all the little fraidy-cats!"

Several nurses converged with that bright, white jacket that long syringe.

"He's gonna get'cha, fraidy-cat!" Then his eyes went dead, too, the needle plunged into his arm.

The dark. Dear God, she hated the dark. . . .

_The dead man in the dark._

_ Tom was laughing._

_"Welcome back, fraidy-cat." _

**. . .**

**A/N: **Hope you liked it – click the button down there and lemme know! :)

This will probably be my last update before my birthday on Sunday, so if you want to give me an early birthday present – REVIEW!

That or Remus Lupin.

**A/N: **Next chapter will "star" **Montague**, from the Slytherin Quidditch team, and **Ted Tonks**.


	9. Winners

**Disclaimer: **Nope. Still don't own it.

**Characters: **Graham Montague – Captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team in HBP – and Ted Tonks

**Genre: **Adventure/Angst

_Enjoy!_

**. . .**

**Winners**

"Go on. Go _on_, I said."

"_C-Crucio!_"

There. He had barely stuttered at all that time.

"Good one, Montague! Look at 'im squeal!" Marcus Flint grinned, revealing teeth the size of tombstones, and clapped him heavily on the back.

"Mm, yeah. Looks familiar, though, doesn't he? From Hogwarts, maybe?" Graham studied the boy, his face swollen and bloodied. He couldn't shake the idea that there was something familiar about him.

"You'd know better than me."

"Oh, so you're old school chums, then?" Scabior mocked, leaning over to take the boy by the collar. "You know these boys, Mudblood? Maybe you wouldn't mind telling 'em who else was in your little band? We'll find them anyway, just save yourself the trouble. . . ."

A defiant glare was the only answer the Snatchers received.

"No? Perhaps a bit more . . . _persuasion_?" Eyes glinting with excitement, Scabior raised his wand. "_Crucio!_"

The curse rolled off his tongue so naturally. No sign of a stutter.

"The two goblins, Mr. Mystery over here, the Ministry traitor. . . ." Scabior ticked off the names on his fingers, pausing only to pick at a peeling cuticle.

"Who _else_, kid?" Flint demanded, punctuating the query with a well-placed kick to the ribs. He rounded on Montague. "Hey, help me out here!"

But the boy was struggling upwards now; spitting out a tooth, swiping a trickle of blood from his eye, he turned to face his attackers. Barely more than a whisper, his voice was filled with vehemence.

"Dirk's ten times the man you'll ever be."

And then he was writhing on the ground once more.

"Mudblood shit. . . ." Flint growled. "Don't need to put up with it anymore though, do we? _We're _the winners now! Us! Not _you_, us!" His eyes were lit with a triumphant fervor.

A light that abruptly left as he hit the ground, hard. Croaking incoherently, the boy barely scrabbled out of the way in time.

"Don't. . . . Back . . . go _back_. . . ."

"Merlin's balls, one of 'em must've found us!" Scabior frantically scanned the dense forest. "You" - he pointed at Montague - "go! Find Greyback and the others if you can, _he'll _track him down." Ropes flew from his wand, binding the boy to the already-unconscious goblins.

"Marcus. . . ."

"Do you think I give a shite about that right now? Go! If it's Potter, do you really want to lose him?"

Grasping the thinly-veiled warning – if they let Potter escape, it could be all their heads – Graham took off into the underbrush. Potter or not, they had hurt Marcus. Marcus, who had always been like a brother to him.

"Hey, we'll show them someday." Those words of comfort after his first Quidditch match. He had fucked up, missed an easy pass from Warrington . . . had the mickey taken out of him for it all day. . . .

"'Cause you know what we are? We're winners. _Pureblood _winners. Them? Those _Gryffindors_? Losers. Don't know _what_ they're doing. But _us_." A sharp jab to the chest. "We'll show them. You got me?"

Graham got him.

He would show them.

Marcus's voice spoke in his head: _Practice makes perfect_. To be the best, to be a _winner_, you need to _work_ at it.

Just like Marcus had labored at that grunt Ministry job. Under that bastard, Cresswell, no less. And now look. . . .

"I got the chance to kill 'im. All while he was trying to escape, of course," Flint had snickered. "_You _were lucky, Montague, not having to lick the shoes of gits like this" - he kicked at Cresswell's lifeless body, breaking his nose for good measure - "you got it all handed to you. . . ."

Recruited to the Snatchers after his help with the Vanishing Cabinet – and a hearty endorsement from Draco Malfoy – Montague had been promised a promotion to Death Eater.

That's _what you need to work on, _Marcus reminded him. _Do that and you'll be well on your way. 'Cause you know what we are?_

"Winners."

A loud snap and a muffled oath sent Graham sprinting toward a thicket of brambles. Heedless of the thorns piercing his skin, he grasped the groaning figure by the throat before throwing him to the ground. Crushing the man's stubby wand beneath one booted foot – negating any notion of a threat – he took in Marcus's would-be murderer.

And laughed.

He needn't have worried. Why, he could have given this man back his wand and a head-start and he _still _wouldn't have had a chance.

Sweating and gasping with a sizable paunch protruding over his Muggle trousers – _Mudblood scum even _dresses_ like them –_ the man swiped a hand over his thinning blond hair.

_Loser._

Still chuckling, Graham leveled his wand. Maybe this man would be caught _trying to escape_ too.

"What are you doing, son?"

_Remember, don't talk to them. _Marcus's voice rang in his head. _They'll try to get under your skin, give you their own special sob story. They just don't get it. Not like us. Winners can't win without having to step on a few losers along the way. God knows _they've _done it enough. Look at this guy. . . ._

Graham's only reply was a hard blow to the side of the head. The man reeled, clutching his now-bleeding temple.

He wouldn't have to worry about it for long.

"I didn't kill your friend, I swear I didn't." The man was babbling now. "I would never . . . not someone so young. Younger than my Dora, even. . . ."

_Dora. _The name wasn't altogether unfamiliar. A cousin of Draco's, maybe. . . ? And a member of the Order to boot.

Like father, like daughter. Losers both. Not only had the man chosen wrongly, he couldn't even _kill_. Couldn't even _step on a few losers_.

_Don't know _what _they're doing._

Graham raised his wand.

He didn't stutter this time.

**. . .**

**A/N: **Tried to write from the perspective of the "villain" this time. Let me know how you liked it!

**A/N: **Updates should (hopefully) be more frequent. I finished college in December and am now searching for a job where I can use my BA in English. Unfortunately, every employer seems to want a thousand years experience or some such.

Wish me luck! And, as always, review!


	10. Fairy Tales

**Disclaimer: **Don't own Harry Potter. Or anything important, really.

**A/N: **Implied Dean/Luna

**Characters: **Dean Thomas and Lysander Scamander, son of Luna Lovegood and Rolf Scamander

**Genre: **Romance/Family

_Enjoy!_

**. . .**

**Fairy-Tales**

"Uncle Dean. Uncle Dean. Uncle _De-ean_."

"Wha-?" Rubbing sleep from his eyes, Dean took a moment to focus upon his four-year-old godson. "Oh . . . 'Sander, my man, what are you doing up?"

"Can't sleep. . . . Lorcan snores. Loud."

"Ah."

"Will Mummy and Dad be back soon?"

"In the morning, 'Sander, you know that."

"Oh. . . ." Even in the dim light, the boy looked absolutely pitiful; Dean's eyes softened.

"You want to sleep here for tonight, buddy? Away from Lorc's snoring?"

Lysander nodded eagerly, scrambling onto the bed and snuggling up next to his godfather. Dean chuckled.

"Comfy, are you?"

"Mmm." He sounded half-asleep already.

"'Night, 'Sander."

"Uncle Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"Will you tell me a story?"

"'Sander, can't this wait? Uncle Dean's really tired right now."

"But I can't _sle-eep_. Mummy always tells me a story when I can't sleep."

"Mummy does, huh?"

"Mhm. 'Bout Crumple-Horned Snorlacks an' Dribbling Humdingers an'. . . ."

It amazed Dean how his godson could have this much energy at two o'clock in the morning. Scouring his brain for all the Muggle fairy-tales he had heard as a child, Dean found himself drawing a blank. He supposed exhaustion did that to a man.

_Too bad Hermione's not here. . . . Bet she and Ron never have this problem._

"_Please_, Uncle Dean?" Lysander's lower lip was wobbling dangerously.

But Hermione wasn't here. Only his tired, homesick godson.

"OK, OK." Dean fought off a yawn. "Once upon a time, there was a . . . princess."

"A _princess_?" Lysander pulled a face.

"Yep. _But_," Dean continued, "she wasn't just any ordinary princess. She could speak to animals. Witches and wizards from all over would bring her their hurt pets and she would speak to them to find out what was wrong. There were rats with, um . . . tummy-aches and owls that had hurt their wings. Once, someone even brought her a dragon."

"A _dragon_?"

"Yes. And he said, 'Princess, I am known all around the kingdom for my fire-breathing prowess, but now I can barely get out a smoke-ring. Please help.' So she looked down the dragon's throat and found . . . found a, erm. . . ."

"A hairball?"

"Exactly, 'Sander, yes. A _hairball_. So the princess removed the hairball and the dragon put on the best fire-breathing show the world has ever seen. He even took her for a ride on his back."

"Wasn't she scared?"

"Of course not. Animals loved her just as much as she loved them. Her subjects loved her too because she was so beautiful and kind. So many men wanted to marry her that, once she turned eighteen, the king decided to hold a contest."

"A contest?"

"Mhm." Despite his drooping lids, Dean found himself warming to the tale. "The king loved his daughter very much and wanted to make sure that the husband he chose for her would make her happy. So he called of the nobles of his kingdom together and ordered them each to find a magical creature as beautiful as the princess herself and bring it to the castle as a gift to her. Whoever's creature met was the most beautiful would receive the princess's hand in marriage.

"However, the princess did not want to marry any of the nobles. She had fallen in love with the royal groom, who loved animals as much as she did, and wanted to marry him instead. The princess wanted to tell her father but didn't want him to be disappointed in her for marrying such a low-born man."

Lysander's brow furrowed with worry. "What did she do?"

"Nothing at first. She was too afraid to talk to her father or to call off the contest. So when the noblemen returned, her father asked her to come see the creatures they had brought her. What she saw upset her so much that she burst into tears.

"The princess saw beauty in happy and healthy animals, but these animals were hurt. The phoenix's bright feathers were dim and drooping; it couldn't even make its beautiful music anymore. The unicorn's coat was dull and its head was hung in despair The nobles had had to capture the creatures in order to bring them to the castle, there was nothing beautiful about them.

"'Don't these creatures please you, daughter? Aren't they beautiful?' the king asked and the princess told him no, seeing animals in that amount of pain could never make her happy. 'If you want to make me happy, Father,' she said, 'tell your men to set these animals free.'

"The nobles obeyed the king but they weren't happy about it. 'Which one of us are you going to marry, then?' asked the handsomest of the men. He was the one who had captured the unicorn and had been sure he would win the contest.

"The princess finally looked nervous. She could deal with animals far easier than she could people. But she loved the groom, she didn't want to be trapped in a marriage like those animals had been trapped. Finally, she turned to the king and said, 'I'm sorry, Father, I don't mean to disappoint you, but I don't love any of these men. I am in love with the royal groom. . . .'"

"What was his name?"

"The groom?"

"Mhm."

"Erm . . . Thomas."

"Oh. OK."

"So she said, 'I am in love with Thomas and want to marry him. He loves magical creatures as much as I do and I am willing to sacrifice anything to be with him. Please, Father, do we have your blessing?'"

"And they got married!"

Dean laughed. "Jumping the gun a bit, aren't you, 'Sander? The king was a bit annoyed that the princess hadn't told him earlier since he'd arranged this whole contest. . . ."

"But they got _married_, right?"

"Yes, they got married."

"And lived happily ever after?"

"Ever after," Dean confirmed.

"Good." Yawning hugely, Lysander burrowed deeper into the covers. "'Night, Uncle Dean."

"'Night, 'Sander, my man."

"Uncle Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"What was her name?"

"The princess?"

"Mmm."

"Um . . . I dunno, buddy. Just 'Princess,' I guess."

"Oh. . . ."

Too tired to be argumentative, Lysander's soft snores filled the room minutes later – _guess it isn't just Lorc –_ but Dean lay awake, watching his sleeping godson, wondering. How long would he dream of happy endings? Of fairy-tales?

How long before he understood Rolf's frigidity?

How long before the thumps in the night turned, seemingly inexplicably, into his mother's cries?

How long before he knew the princess's name?

Dean smoothed a hand over his godson's caramel-colored cheek and wondered.

**. . .**

**A/N: **Well, this totally mutated. Started out as a light-hearted "Dean tells Lysander a bedtime story which implies he has feelings for Luna" to . . . a much darker entity. Did the ending surprise you? It did me, and I was the one _writing _it. Scary. . . .

But seriously, am I the only one who thought it was a total cop-out that Jo paired Luna with a totally random guy. I mean, she and Neville had that fling after the Second War, but I really think she and Dean could have had something.

As always, let me know what you think in a review!

**A/N: **Next chapter will "star" **Mrs. Zabini **and **Adrian Pucey **from the Slytherin Quidditch team. I already have ideas for these guys so expect the next chapter out shortly.


	11. Pukey Pucey

**Disclaimer: **I don't own Harry Potter. Or Louis C.K., for that matter. You know, just in case you were confused. ;)

**Characters: **Adrian Pucey and Mrs. Zabini

**Genre: **Humor/Romance

**A/N: **I've temporarily rated the story **M **solely for this chapter; it's a bit more sexually explicit and I just wanted to play it safe. Next chapter should go back to a **T **rating.

Much thanks to **NoxFlame172 **and **Aasiya333 **for their review of last chapter. You rock!

_That's the worst thing about a little boy's life, you start getting boners when you're nine, and you don't cum for three years. It's just three years of vicious little boners. . . . If you ever see a nine-year-old boy on the street, just give him twenty bucks 'cause he is very unhappy. . . ._

_~Louis C.K._

**. . .**

**Pukey Pucey**

Adrian wanted to throw up.

Crumpled candy wrappers littered the floor while a tub of chocolate frosting lay on its side, half-finished, abandoned in favor of the _piece de resistance_.

The cake.

The triple-chocolate cake.

Blaise's birthday cake.

Merlin, even _thinking _about it. . . . Adrian clutched at his stomach, he was gonna _puke_!

_No. _He'd come too far. He couldn't back down now.

The final, solitary sliver of cake taunted him. He had been planning to leave it for Blaise, everyone knew day-after birthday cake was the best. But it looked so lonely, a giant among the tiny globs of frosting speckling the salver. . . .

And authenticity _was _everything.

_Pukey-Pucey, Pukey-Pucey. . . ._

Hardly tasting the chocolate itself – and ignoring the bile rising in his throat – Adrian forced down the last bite.

After all, he didn't want Blaise getting sick from it, he was just a kid. Now Adrian, _he_ was a man. And tonight – tonight, he would _prove_ it.

Operation: Boobies had commenced.

One hand clutching his stomach, Adrian shuffled from the room – the house-elves would take care of the mess – tip-toeing past Blaise's room on slippered feet. There they lay, sleeping like babies, oblivious to the goddess that walked amongst them.

You had to feel sorry for them.

Creeping further down the corridor, Adrian ventured a tentative groan. He didn't want to wake the whole house up, after all.

But he was close. He could tell.

"Oh . . . _oh_, God . . . don't stop, oh, _oh_. . . ."

_The happy noises_, Blaise and Draco called them. The babies. Everyone knew what _those _were. Why did Blaise think he had so many step-dads? She just hadn't found the right one yet. . . .

"Ugh . . . _ugggh_. . . ."

And there he went, Husband Number . . . whatever he was. As if _he _could possibly please _her_.

"_Ungggh_."

There. That should work.

"What was that?" grunted Husband Number Whatever.

Adrian stepped away from the bedroom door, triumphant.

"I don't know, hold on. . . ." _she _purred. He heard the coverlet slipping back.

"_Ow_, don't _twist _it."

"Sorry. Just be a sec. It's probably just Blaise."

"I swear, Sylvia, you coddle that boy so. . . ."

_Come on already. . . ._

"Miss _Zabi-ini_," Adrian moaned. "I don't feel good."

"Oh, no." Her footsteps padded toward the door. "His mother warned me this might happen."

Authenticity was everything.

"Sylv-. . . ."

"Oh, stuff it, Al. . . . Ade, Ade, are you alright, hon?" She was kneeling before him now, a black silk robe thrown on over . . . over – was that a _bra_? And a black, lacy one at that. The few glimpses he had caught of his mum's underthings were a simple, economical beige – _blech_ – nothing like _this_.

Plus, who really wanted to see their mum's underwear?

Adrian wanted to reach out and touch it, simply to confirm its existence, but forced his hand to remain at his side. The plan couldn't fail now, not when he was so close.

"Ade, Adrian, what's wrong? Did you eat too much at the party, love?" Her hand checked his brow for fever.

"I think so," he whimpered, forcing himself to sound as pitiful as possible. "I didn't mean to, Miss Zabini, 'm sorry. . . ." Clutching his stomach, he shuffled forward for a reassuring embrace.

_Yes. _Score. He could all-but _feel _them through the thin robe.

"It's alright, Ade." She patted his back. "Happens to the best of us. I think I have a potion that should help with the nausea."

"If he's sick, he should go home." His sizable gut announcing his arrival, Husband Number Whatever had joined them in the doorway. "C'mon, Sylvia, you go on back to bed, you've had a long day. I'll Floo his parents." Placing a large-knuckled hand on her shoulder, he glared at Adrian.

"No . . . I wanna stay over." Unable to summon tears on such short notice, he settled for a wobbling lower lip. "I wanna stay for the rest of the party. I promise I won't get anyone sick . . . please let me stay, please. . . ."

"He's right, Al. . . . It's not an infection, just a stomach upset. . . ."

"Well, _I'm _not about to stay up all night with some sick kid. I did _not _volunteer for that."

"I'm not asking you to. Just go on back to bed."

"Fine. Fine, Sylvia, choose the kids over me, just like you always do."

Pressed against her chest, Adrian felt her stiffen.

"One of those kids is my _son_, Alistair."

The silence was the coldest he had ever felt. He supposed he might have been uncomfortable if he hadn't been in the throes of ecstasy.

Her _boobs _were _touching _him!

"Come on, Ade. Let's go get you that potion." Reaching under his seat, she hauled him up so that his head rested comfortably on her shoulder.

"Mmm. Thanks, Miss Zabini."

"It's no problem, Ade."

Husband Number Whatever stood in the hall, glaring after them. Adrian smiled back, a sweet little nine-year-old smile.

Idiot. As if _he _could possibly keep someone like _her_. The goddess with the black-lace bra. She needed a _real _man.

Someone willing to wait as long as it took.

Someone willing to prove it and eat that last slice of chocolate cake.

Someone. . . .

_Pukey-Pucey, Pukey-Pucey. . . ._

"Oh, _Adrian_ . . . dear God. . . ."

. . . like Adrian.

**. . .**

**A/N: **Seeing as I have never been a nine-year-old boy, I hope I did alright portraying his emotions. Review and let me know!

I have a new poll on my profile page about Parts 1-10 of **The Sorting Bucket**. If you get a chance, just go and vote on your one (or two) favorite chapters, that way I can get a good sense of which styles work and which ones don't. I'll be posting a new poll every ten chapters.

The next chapter will "star" the one, the only **Harry Potter –** I was wondering when I would get him – and **Andromeda Tonks**. Be sure to tune in!

~Lizzy Lovegood


	12. No One Better

**Disclaimer: **If I owned Harry Potter, Remus and Tonks would not have died. And Remus would have married Luna Lovegood's sister. And they would have lived happily ever after. But I don't. And we won't.

**Characters: **Harry-freaking-Potter (kudos if you get that reference!) and Andromeda Tonks

**Genre: **Family/Hurt/Comfort

**A/N: **Many apologies again, faithful readers (the three of you out there), but real life is being a real bitch right now. That may account for my slightly darker take on this chapter, or I might just like being dark and angsty and all that good stuff. . . . Yeah, I think it's that one.

Plus, big thank-you's to **NoxFlame172 **and **crapmuffins **for their reviews of last chapter! I hope you both return to read this one!

_Bon Appetit!_

**. . .**

**No One Better**

Harry Potter was many things.

A godfather was not one of them.

"How does someone so small. . . ." He trailed off, staring at his godson's bulging diaper with something approaching horror. His face scrunched-up in discomfort, Teddy's only reply was a rousing wail.

"OK, alright, just . . . just give me a second." Unfastening the nappy with fumbling fingers, Harry turned his face away from the stench. "_Ugh_ . . . OK, now how do. . . ." He scanned the room for supplies – kitchen tongs, maybe? - as Teddy's wails continued unabated.

"Shh, now, _shh_. . . ." His attempt at a soothing tone failing miserably, Harry ran a frustrated hand through his hair. "C'mon, Ted, _shh_. . . ."

Where could they be? It was a nursery, for Merlin's sake, there had to be diapers _somewhere_.

_"I've never quite got the hang of these sort of householdy spells. . . ."_

Teddy's face was turning an angry red now, chubby legs flailing.

"Just . . . just _shut up_, would you?"

The screams increased tenfold. And Harry wanted to scream along with him.

"_What _is going on?" Elegant even in disarray, Andromeda swept her grandson – stinking nappy and all – into her arms. "Grandma can't even get two-seconds rest these days, can she?"

Though she kept her tone purposefully light, she glared daggers at Harry.

"I couldn't find. . . ."

She didn't even wait for him to finish. "_Accio _diapers!"

"I didn't think. . . ." Harry floundered helplessly as Andromeda set about changing and redressing the infant.

_"My mum's got this knack of getting stuff to fit itself in neatly . . . I've never mastered how she does it. . . ."_

"Of course you didn't." Still, her tone remained neutral. Kissing the baby's forehead, she silenced the piercing cries to whimpers; a gummy smile appeared on Teddy's face.

But the silence was louder than anything. Harry half-wanted Teddy to start crying again; at least then there would be something to distract him. At least then he wouldn't have to feel Andromeda's eyes boring into him, radiating disappointment.

"Would you mind feeding him or do you have to go?"

Harry flinched at the words. He knew what they meant.

_Or is that too hard for you, too?_

Yes. Yes, as a matter of fact, it was. Who did he think he was fooling?

_"I have complete confidence in you. . . ."_

_Complete confidence –_ what a joke. . . . All Harry had was his _saving-people-thing _and he'd even managed to screw that up. If it weren't for him, Teddy would have had parents . . .

_"You'll be godfather?"_

_ "M-me?"_

. . . parents instead of a useless git of a godfather.

"I'll go."

"Fine." Andromeda stroked a strand of turquoise-colored hair off of Teddy's forehead. So judgmental only moments ago, she now refused to look at him.

Harry hovered in the doorway. He knew he didn't need to offer an excuse – helping in the Hogwarts reconstruction or an interview with the _Prophet –_ they both knew what he was really saying.

_I quit._

But he did anyway.

"I didn't ask for this, you know."

"Of course you didn't."

"I _didn't_," Harry repeated emphatically. It was crucial that he make her understand this. "I mean . . . Prof- . . . _Remus_, he hardly gave me a choice at all, you know? The last time I saw him, we were shouting at each other and then he's asking if I want to be godfather? I didn't know what to say. . . ."

But then . . . then they have to go and get themselves killed. And I don't know what to do, I'm not a parent, I don't know the first thing _about _parents! I didn't even know where the _diapers _were, for Merlin's sake!"

Andromeda's expression remained inscrutable as ever.

Harry wanted to rage and storm, to shout that this wasn't fair that, just because Remus and Tonks had – and he half-despised himself for thinking it – skipped out on their child, he should have to take their place, become a father to an infant he had barely known a month. He had defeated Voldemort, wasn't that enough?

Didn't he at least deserve some time to mourn? They had been his friends, after all, his mentors, and Remus. . . . Remus, who had been the last remaining link to his father.

The words died in his throat. Teddy had twisted in his grandmother's arms, observing his godfather with wide, brown eyes. Eyes that were – for the moment, at least – the same shade as Remus's.

_"I was trying to make a world in which he could live a happier life."_

But could Harry give him that? He, a seventeen-year-old wizard who had never changed a nappy in his life?

Or, much like his own godfather, would any care he could offer be tempered by resentment toward his godson for the man he could never be?

Too many _what ifs_, too many questions. . . .

Yet still he stood there; those brown eyes held him transfixed, tethering him to the here-and-now.

_"I think he looks like Dora, but she thinks he is like me."_

And, with his million worries clamoring to be voiced, all Harry could manage was, "I'm not ready." It was a far-from-perfect summation, but it was the best he could do. Hermione had always been better, much better, at emotional things like this.

Her features softening slightly, Andromeda stepped forward. Placing a hand on his shoulder for the briefest of seconds, she deposited a wriggling Teddy into his arms. Shocked, Harry wrapped his arms tentatively around the baby who granted him a gummy smile in return.

When she finally spoke, every word seemed to cost her a great effort. "She – Nymphadora – always left things all over the place. His father was the more organized one. I expect that's why you couldn't find the. . . ." She trailed off, instead nodding toward the diapers, now placed neatly beneath the changing table.

"Yeah, erm . . . thanks," Harry said awkwardly, floundering for words that would be able to take away the shadows in Andromeda's eyes, words that wouldn't come. . . .

Her only reply was a small incline of the head. "I am going to get some rest. Teddy needs to be fed, his bottles should be in the cupboard next to the sink."

Not waiting for a reply this time – something Harry was grateful for, as he was not altogether sure he would have been able to formulate one – she disappeared.

Alone again, Harry bounced his godson in his arms. "You hungry, Ted?" he asked, attempting a jovial tone that came out much better than expected.

Teddy giggled in reply, his eyes changing to an emerald-green that mirrored his godfather's.

His lips twitching – how long had it been since he had last laughed? - Harry ruffled the tuft of turquoise hair. Teddy grasped his thumb with one chubby hand, gurgling incoherently.

_ "You, yes, of course – Dora quite agrees, no one better. . . ."_

With Teddy, there was no need for magic words – not yet. All he needed, all any of them needed, was time. Time to heal, time to make mistakes, time to learn how to be a godfather – disgusting nappies and all.

_"I – yeah – blimey. . . ."_

Eventually, the right words would come.

**. . .**

**A/N: **Harry may have seemed a bit OOC to some of you, but I tried to make him as realistic as possible. In the final chapter of Deathly Hallows (before the Epilogue), he is just thinking about some much-needed relaxation and then – boop – it's Nineteen Years Later and he's Mr. Perfect Dad/Husband/Godfather/Auror/Any Other Title You Can Think Of.

He didn't go from Mr. I'm Tired to Mr. Perfect in one day, he went through some really traumatic stuff – notably the loss of Remus and Tonks and having to take responsibility for Teddy – and he is perfectly justified, in my opinion, in being a teeny bit selfish.

If you bothered to read it, hope you agree with, or at least understand, my logic, and hope you enjoyed it. Let me know in that little box down there!

Next chapter will feature **James Potter **and **Su Li** who, judging by the HP Lexicon, was Sorted into Ravenclaw in 1991. Boy, that'll be fun to write (said my Inner Snape sarcastically). If anyone has any ideas, feel free to send an owl my way. I'll probably end up doing a time-travel story of some kind. . . . Maybe even a crack!fic/parody. . . . Either way, be sure to tune in!

Stay classy, San Diego.

~Lizzy Lovegood


	13. A Close One

**Disclaimer: **Never have. Never will. We good?

**A/N: **As promised, here is the James Potter and Su Li story that I'm sure you've all been dying for. According to HPL, Su Li was supposed to be in Harry's year but got cut out of the final draft of _Sorcerer's Stone_.

I was planning on making this into much more of a parody but, as with so many things that I write, it took on a mind of its' own. I wish they'd stop doing that. But alas, the only true parody I've written is **Random Conversations**. Yes, this is blatant advertisement. BLATANT.

_Bon Appetit!_

**. . .**

**A Close One**

Lily was going to kill him.

A freshly-made treacle tart had been demolished to a pile of tasty-looking goo. Goo which his six-month-old son was now sitting in, ridding his chubby fingers of the concoction. Said six-month-old having narrowly avoided getting squashed by several books which had, quite literally, appeared in mid-air. Books which had been followed by a pretty, teenaged Asian girl, wearing a schoolgirl uniform.

"So you're . . . from the . . . future," he repeated slowly, hoping that it would make her explanation sound more plausible and less like a husband caught in the act. It didn't. Not that he would ever cheat on Lily, she was his soul-mate, the mother of his child. Plus, he was pretty sure she would castrate him. . . .

Well, at least he wouldn't have to worry about that now – he glanced at Harry, delving his hand into the treacly mess for a second scoop then back at the girl, who was staring back, eyebrows raised – he was a dead man walking. Lily's next treacle tart would probably have bits of James Potter mixed in. He wondered if he would taste good . . . well, of course he would, he was James Potter. Any cook worth their salt always added James Potter to things for a bit of an extra kick.

"Hey. Hey, Mr. Potter. James. You OK?" The pretty Asian girl waved a hand in front of his face. "Hel-_lo_?"

He didn't question how she knew his name. "Do you think I would taste good?"

"Um . . . is that your attempt at flirting or are you genuinely asking?"

"Yes."

She seemed to consider for a moment. "You'd be good with some paprika and coriander."

Looking as if a tremendous weight had been taken off his chest, James sighed. Then, "So . . . you're from the _future_."

"Wha- . . . didn't I _just_ . . . never mind. Yes, I'm from the future. . . ." And she was off, babbling about the capacity of the human mind and time and space and breaking the fourth wall and a bunch of other things he didn't understand the first thing about. He'd bet ten Galleons she was a Ravenclaw. Bloody smart-arses. Hot, though. . . .

No, that was a dangerous thought. A Lily-castrating-him thought. Concentrate on something else, _anything_. What was that she was saying?

". . . Harry . . ."

"Harry? What about Harry?" he demanded, grabbing his sticky son and clutching him protectively to his chest.

The girl sighed. "Did you take in anything I just said?"

"Nope."

The girl sighed. "Merlin, I thought you'd be smarter than this."

"Hey, _you're _not the one who had someone just drop into your kitchen, Miss, er . . . ."

"Li. Su Li." She laughed. "Bond. James Bond."

". . . and _your _wife's not the one that's going to kill you or castrate you or whatever because she thought that you just had sex with the person who dropped into your kitchen. And who in the bloody _hell _is James Bond?"

"You _can't _tell me you haven't seen those. Come on, _everyone's_ seen those! I'm a half-blood that lives in someone's mind and _I've _seen those!"

And they were back to the not-making-sense part. Had they ever left?

"Wait, you live . . . in someone's _mind_?"

"Weren't you listening?"

"Didn't we have this conversation? I remember _that_ part."

Su glared at him. "Yes, I live in someone's mind. The author of these books – books about your son."

"Harry," he parroted.

"Yes." She dragged the word out, as if speaking to a toddler; Harry gurgled back. "And I can only travel to a certain time period when _she_ thinks about it; otherwise I just have to hang around in her brain all day. It gets boring, believe me. She doesn't know _what _to do with me, I'm like Tina."

"Does she know James Bond?"

"No, she's from this TV show, _Glee_. It's . . . you know what, forget it. You'd probably go crazy if I tried to explain it. It drives _me _crazy, come to that."

"You sound bitter."

She shrugged helplessly. "I just hate not being in control. I'm at the whim of _her _imagination. I can't even influence her that much – you know, _make _her think about me – I'm barely more than an idea!"

Not sure what to say – Lily was always better with these emotional things – James stayed silent, shifting awkwardly from foot-to-foot. He really ought to give Harry a bath.

"So. . . ."

She spoke at the same time. "Maybe. . . ."

"What?"

"Maybe I could be more."

"Erm. . . ."

"These books, they're your son's future. If you read them, you would . . . know things. You could change things. Like a reading-the-books fic, but with proper spelling and grammar."

"Is that another James Bond reference?"

"No, it's . . . doesn't matter. Sorry. My point is, things would change. And . . . maybe I could be more."

"More than an idea?"

"More than an idea."

"And Harry, these will help keep him safe?"

"He would have _less _near-death experiences, yes."

"_Less?_"

"Believe me, I've seen your son. He can do plenty of stupid things with or without some dark wizard's help."

Well, there was no help for it. Lily would kill him if he turned down information about their impending doom. Shrugging, James reached for one of the books, the smallest of the lot, and opened it. "_Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. . . ._"

That was when things went black.

"Shit," he heard Su hiss under her breath. "Shit, shit, _shit_! Where's my wand . . . where's my bloody _wand_? James, keep reading, don't stop read. . . ." She went abruptly silent.

"Su?" he called into the blackness. "Su, are you still there? Su!" Still clutched to his side, Harry bawled.

Coming up empty in the search for his own wand, he realized too late that he'd left it in the bedroom. Not the most sensible idea with a war on, Lily was always going after him about it. Said it would be the death of him. And then she'd make him into a treacle tart. The world's most delicious treacle tart with paprika and coriander.

The book slipped from his fingers.

**. . .**

Joanne Rowling shifted in her computer chair. She hit Enter and typed:

THE END

_Wow, _she thought. _That was a close one._

**. . .**

**A/N: **Confused? Don't worry, I am too. Let me know how you liked it or how confused you were in a review! Mutual confusion is even _more _fun!

Also, how tasty do you think treacly James Potter is?

Next chapter will feature** Lisa Turpin** who, according to the HPL was a Ravenclaw in Harry's year and everyone's least-favorite centaur **Bane**. Any ideas as to what to do with this pairing would be greatly appreciated. And no, I'm not about to make it a weird bestiality thing.


	14. The Lesser of Two Evils

**Disclaimer: **You know the drill. I don't own it, JK Rowling does.

**Characters: **Lisa Turpin, a Ravenclaw in Harry's year, and Bane the centaur

**Genre: **Drama/Angst

**A/N: **Wow, this chapter was out a lot sooner than I expected. Enjoy!

**. . .**

**The Lesser of Two Evils**

Centaurs did not curse. Highly intelligent creatures, they refused to succumb to the use of such primitive human drivel whenever in the throes of a particularly strong emotion. It was a point of pride in such a noble breed.

Centaurs did _not _curse.

"_Darn _Firenze," Bane muttered to himself. "_Darn _him, he's as stubborn as a mule . . . a _darn _mule."

It had been a week and his limp still hadn't faded. Even a simple trot through his territories had become a chore, but it was a chore he would entrust to very few others. Hagrid could be very persuasive in his own bumbling way; Hagrid, who had caused this whole mess in the first place. Centaurs did not befriend humans per se, but he had always treated Hagrid cordially; and in return, the man had kept his overly-large self out of centaur business. They had their own way of dealing with things and the humans had their own, bogged down by silly emotions and hang-ups though they might be.

Bane stamped at the ground in irritation, wincing as his foreleg gave a particularly painful twinge. No human could be expected to comprehend the intricacies of centaur culture – their innate superiority, their intelligence and nobility. Firenze was being justly punished and still – _still _– Hagrid had stepped in. He had treated them like barbarians, bodily throwing Bane off of Firenze's writhing form.

"All he's doin' is helpin' Albus Dumbledore!" Hagrid had shouted, crossbow at the ready and slavering boarhound at his side. "Tha's more than I can say for any of you nags!"

Bane snorted. Humans believed them to be nothing but silly stargazers, never realizing the secrets they held. It was a centaur's job – a centaur's _burden _– to keep those secrets. Meddling in human affairs could only lead to trouble, as he had tried to tell Firenze.

_ Darn mule._

Foolishly, Firenze had persisted. And look where it had gotten him – exiled from his home and snug in Albus Dumbledore's pocket. The wizarding world may be content to follow their savior to their doom, but Bane refused to let his people go down with them. Any man who allowed such atrocities as Hagrid's – and he must suspect something, for a human he was not unintelligent – to go on under their very nose was no man at all.

And to be teaching Divination of all things! Humans attributed all manner of events to the supposed _alignment of the planets_ – losing a bet or finding a few Galleons – when it was really only the large ones that mattered.

Bane only wished they could have predicted this.

Because once Firenze had revealed everything, once there was no mystery left without some mundane, all-too human answer, then. . . . Why then, Bane had no doubt, he would be used as nothing more . . . well, nothing more than a _darn mule_. Perhaps he would pull the carriages alongside the thestrals next term. Hagrid would never raise a hand to stop it; he was as bad as one of them now, just another human to be kept out of the land that was Bane's birthright.

". . . but I stuck with it, not like that Hermione Granger. I mean, she has brains but she's _such _a drama queen. Defending Potter through all of this, it's _obviously_ just for attention. . . ."

Sidestepping to avoid a steaming pile of hippogriff dung, Bane was surprised to find himself approaching the boundary of the forest. It was no wonder he could overhear the humans' conversation. Peering through the foliage, he could see two humans – female by the look of them – sitting by the lake's edge. The one he had heard initially was still prattling away to her companion, a girl with long, curly red hair, without a care in the world.

". . . Cho would even _fall_ for someone like that, not after Cedric. Do you know if they're still together?"

Another human trait he despised; centaurs prided themselves on few words while humans chattered away inanely, treating silence as if it were a fate worse than death. Rolling his eyes in silent disapproval, Bane made to turn away just as a word caught his attention – one word in all that chatter.

". . . I forget, do you take Divination?"

_ Divination._

Despite his better judgment, Bane stayed put. What secrets had Firenze already divulged?

The first female laughed, flipping her dark hair over her shoulder. "Of _course_ some of the girls think he's hot, the idiots. Me, I prefer my guys _without _tails, if you don't mind. Not to mention he's a total bloody nut-job!"

_ Nut-job? _Bane had never heard the term, but could understand the derogatory implications. Nevertheless, he couldn't comprehend it; Firenze was revealing to these ignorant foals the very secrets of the universe itself. How that could possibly be construed as anything close to. . . .

". . . stoned half the time too, I bet. And I asked him today, I asked him, 'Sir, do you really think you're suited to this position?' and half the class stared at me like I was bloody insane first off. Stupid 'Puffs. But then he goes, and I'm telling you this verbatim Marietta, he goes" – she adopted a pseudo-mystical voice – "'Whatever the headmaster thinks is best, Lisa Turpin.' Like, he's not about to question it _at all_. . . ."

_ Darn _her, darn her and her whole darned kind. Ungrateful foals to be given so much and throw it back in their teacher's face. Bane's fingers twitched toward his quiver. Nothing to physically harm them, just a warning shot. . . .

". . . everyone's acting like she's this horrible despot, but she's got the right idea about things, you know? If we have Dumbledore making the decisions for much longer, who knows what'll happen. Probably have his whole _herd _up here teaching us." She gestured idly toward the forest and Bane's blood boiled.

Barely controlling the urge to nock an arrow to his bow and let fly, he wheeled to leave, his hooves churning up dirt. Still, the conversation drifted toward him on the wind.

". . . wants to start tagging the centaur population, too. All these half-breeds are really getting out of control. . . ."

Unheeding of the pain in his leg Bane broke into a gallop, the girl's caustic words still echoing in his ears.

. . . _his whole herd _. . .

. . . _tagging the centaur population _. . .

. . . _half-breeds_ . . .

Chest heaving, whether from exertion or rage he couldn't tell, Bane finally skidded to a halt, sending pebbles and clods of earth flying. He shot an arrow towards the nearest tree and it stuck there, quivering; a bowtruckle shook its' tiny fists at him in indignation.

Centaurs did _not _curse.

Centaurs dealt with things logically. Threatening the students would only give this mysterious _she _more fuel for her fire. This _she_, whoever she was, that wished to tag centaurs – _tag _them as if they were human playthings! - this _she _who considered centaurs – the noblest of creatures – to be nothing more than _half-breeds_, never to be granted the coveted _privilege _of humanity.

This _she _who seemed to despise Albus Dumbledore even more than Bane himself did.

_Any man who allowed such atrocities to go on under their very nose was no man at all._

Unless, of course, the man had enough problems of his own.

He was only human.

Centaurs were far superior.

**. . .**

**A/N: **So if you didn't understand the implications of the ending, this was basically my take on how the centaurs (very slowly) changed their attitude toward Dumbledore. Bit of an analysis ahead (I have a Bachelor's in English, I have to use it somewhere!) so feel free to skip ahead and review (_review, review, review –_ this is an echo, please do it, I'm running out of creative ways to ask you guys).

Anywhoozles, we first see the centaur herd when Hagrid brings Harry and Hermione into the forest to meet Grawp. They aren't too happy that Hagrid's – because he stopped them from beating Firenze to death – but they let them pass. Then, when Harry and Hermione bring Umbridge into the forest, the centaurs put up a big fuss about how the kids only brought her in there so that they could do the dirty work. But they still do it! And it's _Bane _who grabs her! The other centaurs are planning on taking Harry and Hermione but they get er . . . _distracted_, let's say, by Grawp. And the whole time that the six of them are discussing transportation methods, none of the centaurs comes back for them.

After the whole fiasco at the Department of Mysteries, Dumbledore goes into the forest to rescue Umbridge and comes out with her without a scratch on him. The centaurs obviously respect him enough – or they're united against a common enemy – to let him go in peace.

We don't see them much after that, but they fire their arrows to honor Dumbledore at his funeral and fight in the Battle of Hogwarts. True, we only see them fighting after Hagrid goads them when he's carrying the "dead" Harry out of the forest but we don't know what they were doing beforehand. They might have been helping behind the scenes. Maybe I'll write another fan fic about that. Sorry for this ridiculously long analysis, but I just love creating my own fanon when I write these stories. JKR gave us such an amazing world to work with!

And next chapter will feature – drum roll, please – **Madam Pomfrey **and **Lily Potter II**! Wow, compared to what I've been writing, that's ridiculously easy! It should (hopefully) be out within the next couple of days.

_Allons-y!_


	15. Accidents

**Disclaimer: **Nope. Does that answer your question?

**Characters: **Lily Potter II and Madam Pomfrey

**Genre: **Humor/Family

**A/N: **Big thank you's to **crapmuffins **and **Michelle Black a.k.a Elle **for reviewing the last couple of chapters. You guys are supermegafoxyawesomehot! Cookies if you get that reference!

Well, here's my second attempt at a solely-dialogue story (my first was **Fairytales **with Dean and Lysander and that went in a _totally _different direction than what I'd intended). But this time it actually worked! Fantastic!

_Geronimo!_

**. . .**

**Accidents**

"Please, Madam Pomfrey!"

"Now, Miss Potter. . . ."

"_Please!_ I am literally _begging _you here!"

"Miss Potter, you know I am obligated. . . ."

"He'll kill me! Scorpius too, for good measure! Do you really want our deaths on your hands?"

"Don't be so foolish, child. He's your father. Besides, your brothers are still walking around, aren't they?"

"It doesn't matter what James and Al do, they can get away with _anything_. Me, I have to get his _express permission _just to take a piss."

"You're his daughter, dear. He's just protective. If you'd been through what he had. . . ."

"He just treats me like I'm a total baby. He's always like 'oh, it's too dangerous, Lily,' or 'oh, you're too young, Lily.' I'm thirteen, for Merlin's sake, Mum told me he was pulling stunts _long _before that!"

"He only wants a better life for you, child. One where you don't _have _to be constantly risking your neck."

"Risking my neck? Risking my _neck_? It isn't even dangerous, it's _fun_! If he wasn't such a dictator, he'd _know _that!"

"Your visit here would say otherwise."

"This doesn't count, I would've been fine if Scorpius hadn't . . . well, never mind. It's not really his fault, anyway. Al and James are the ones who refused to help in the first place. All _they _did was parrot Dad. 'You're too young . . . maybe next year. . . .' Bloody cowards."

"Language, Miss Potter."

"Sorry, sorry. . . . Still, the least they could've done was give me some tips. When you think about it, it's really _their _fault. . . . Ugh, he'll never buy that, will he? I am _so _dead! _Please_, Madam Pomfrey, please, please, _please _don't tell him!"

"Now, Miss Potter, don't agitate yourself. . . ."

"I'll scrub out bedpans for a month – without magic!"

"Miss Potter. . . ."

"I'll . . . I'll catalogue all the potions. Alphabetically, even! Do whatever you – well, not _whatever _you want, that sounds wrong – but within a reasonable scope, do whatever you want with me! Just _please_. . . ."

"Miss Potter, calm yourself or I will do it for you. This tantrum is not helping your condition."

"Tantrum? _Tantrum? _I'm about to be murdered or grounded for life or _something _and you think I'm throwing a _tantrum_? I can't believe . . . blech, what _was_ that?"

"A Calming Draught. Now, listen to me. I am going to inform the headmistress of what has happened and she, in turn, will inform your parents, your father included. However, I doubt – no, _listen _to me, Miss Potter – I _highly_ doubtthat you will face any life-threatening consequences."

"And why's that? You planning on Obliviating him?"

"Because, believe it or not, your dictator of a father has been through the same thing."

"Yeah, right. He was always too busy slaying dark wizards to worry about stuff like this."

"Not at eleven, he wasn't. Or twelve, for that matter. Take away the scar and he was just like any other student – if more danger-prone than most. _Much _more danger-prone. Particularly in regards to Quidditch."

"Wait, seriously? Like this, you mean?"

"Oh, much worse. Why, in his second year he lost all the bones in his right arm and the next he fell fifty feet off his broomstick."

"_Fifty_. . . ? You're joking."

"And a few years after _that _he cracked his skull open with one of those awful Bludgers. Not safe in a school full of children, let me tell you. The amount of injuries I have to deal with a year. . . ."

"Yes. But how. . . ?"

"That, I believe, he can tell you himself. Now, I must go inform the headmistress."

"Hang on, did you just give me blackmail material?"

"You know, Miss Potter, I think I will take you up on that offer. My stockroom _is _in desperate need of a good cleaning. And if you wouldn't mind organizing them alphabetically? Once you're feeling better, of course."

"Worth it. _So _worth it."

**. . .**

**A/N: **While brainstorming/writing, I actually pictured Lily as a slightly more subdued version of Lydia from the Lizzie Bennet Diaries. If you haven't seen those, I suggest you check it out! It's basically a modern version of Pride and Prejudice but in vlog form; even if you're not a big fan of the book, this series will suck you in. It's just amazing.

I'm also thinking of writing a Doctor Who fic. It won't be anything epic, probably just some Ten/Rose fluff because they are amazing and their relationship is made of amazingness and wonderflonium and if I was rich, I would pay Steven Moffat to make them travel the universe together and Rose to be immortal for some unknown reason. Or at least to do a spin-off of Human Ten and Rose's life in the parallel universe. So yeah, fangirly rant over. But seriously, thoughts on this would be appreciated.

If you liked it, let me know in a review. If you hated it, let me know in a review. If you thought it was supermegafoxyawesomehot (seriously, if you don't get that reference, go to YouTube and look it up. You're welcome.) but review before you go and do that!

_Allons-y!_


	16. Late

**Disclaimer: **Nope. Still don't own it.

**Characters: **Vernon Dursley and Mr. Granger

**Genre: **Humor/Family

**A/N: **Here is what I'm sure has been the long-awaited chapter of The Sorting Bucket. Thanks to **Gwenlynn **for the review of last chapter. You're awesome and I hope you review this one as well!

Also, since Jo never told us Mr. or Mrs. Granger's first names, I made some up myself.

_Allons-y!_

**. . .**

**Late**

_July 19, 1993 – 6:02 PM_

"The bloody letter says six and we get here at six," Mr. Dursley grumbled, checking his watch for the fifth time in as many minutes.

"Quarter to six, actually," Mrs. Dursley affirmed with a judgmental sniff.

"Quite right, Petunia, quite right! We don't have time to wait around all bloody day! I'm expecting an important phone call, might make my career. Not that that matters to _their _kind, probably have some crazy contraption. . . ."

"Vernon, hush!" Mrs. Dursley cast wary glances around the crowded station.

"Yes, sorry Petunia."

"When is he gonna _get _here, Mum?" the Dursleys' son, Dudley, moaned, slouching as if the very effort of holding his body up for longer than five minutes was more than he could bear.

"Soon, Dudders," Mrs. Dursley soothed, smoothing her son's hair.

"I'll go check for him, son," Mr. Dursley volunteered, puffing out his chest in a manly way. "With that" - he mouthed the word _owl _- "of his, he should be easy to spot. Stands out a mile." He bent to kiss his wife's cheek and, with a put-upon sigh, started toward the teeming masses surrounding platforms nine and ten. He knew (though he wished he didn't) that the boy would come through the barrier – the damned _brick wall –_ between the two.

Platform nine and three-quarters. He snorted. Absolutely ridiculous.

_June 19, 1993 – 6:03 PM_

If Mr. Dursley had been a poetic man, he may have compared the steam rising from the trains to his own steaming state. Indeed, his beefy face matched perfectly that of the scarlet steam engine which his nephew was currently disembarking from. But Mr. Dursley was not a poetic man, so he was just angry.

"Ruddy boy only lives under our roof, eats our food. . . ." he muttered to himself, stopping abruptly as a passing couple cast him an apprehensive glance. He was Vernon Dursley and, ungrateful nephew or not, had not yet degenerated to muttering to himself in train stations.

_ Not yet, anyway, _he thought darkly. But that flying Ford Anglia was enough to test anyone's sanity. If the _neighbors _had seen. . . . He and Mrs. Dursley would have counted their lucky stars, if they had believed in nonsense like that. Not that propriety must matter to _their _lot. He snorted. Freaks, every last one of them.

"Hello! Lovely day, isn't it?" Undoubtedly interpreting Mr. Dursley's snort as a sign of his genial nature, a man had approached him, beaming like some overly benevolent sun as he waited for a response. Though of average height and weight, he had a wide smile, full of bright white teeth slightly larger than average. No mustache obscured the man's maniacal grin, merely a light brown stubble to match his hair.

Mr. Dursley disliked him immediately. Any man without facial hair was, in his opinion, hardly a man at all.

"I suppose," Mr. Dursley grunted noncommittally, thinking of dozens of things he'd rather be doing. Next time, the boy was _definitely _calling a cab, this was just getting ridiculous.

"Especially after all this rain we've been having," the man continued. "I'm Stephen Granger, by the way."

"Vernon Dursley." Mr. Dursley offered his hand stiffly to Mr. Granger.

"Pleasure to meet you, Vernon. Say, you look familiar. Have we met before?"

_June 19, 1993 – 6:04 PM_

Mr. Dursley didn't give it a second's thought. "No," he said. He had no wish to be associated with this man, there was obviously something very wrong with him. Who talked with that much enthusiasm about the weather for God's sake?

Mr. Granger chuckled. "No, no, I think we have. I never forget a face. I'm a dentist, you see, my wife and I both, and I'm very good with teeth." His mouth twisted in thought as he studied Mr. Dursley's incisors. Immediately, Mr. Dursley clamped his mouth shut.

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'm making you uncomfortable, aren't I?" His face a mixture of apology and regret – as if deprived of a real treat – Mr. Granger offered a conciliatory smile. "My wife has the better bedside manner, I'm afraid. I'll just babble on. I'm just excited, you know; we're picking up our daughter from boarding school today and. . . ."

Horror rose in Mr. Dursley as the man's blue eyes lit up with recognition. He should've known better, such a weirdo _had _to have something wrong with him. Just look at his hair – shaggy as a hippie's and without even a mustache! You could tell a lot about a man from his hair, he'd always said so.

"I saw you here last year, didn't I? We were told not to tell but if _you _know . . . you must know, you're standing right here! Can't blame you, I wanted a front-row seat, too. It's just . . . it's incredible, isn't it? They just run through and . . . _zoom!_" Mr. Granger looked positively giddy at the idea that his newfound friend shared in his secret.

Mr. Dursley's glare was sharp as daggers but, now embracing a dark-haired woman – Mr. Dursley presumed she must be his wife – Mr. Granger took no notice.

_June 19, 1993 – 6:05 PM_

"Jean, this is Vernon Dursley. He's picking someone up, too" – he whispered the phrase as if it were a code – "Vernon, this is my wife, Jean."

"Lovely to meet you, Vernon." Mrs. Granger extended her hand to shake Mr. Dursley's own but he ignored it. She continued, unfazed. "Are you picking up your son, then?"

"No," Mr. Dursley growled.

"Oh, your daughter then? What year is she in, our Hermione's just finished up her second. . . ."

"They grow up way too fast, don't they, Vernon?" Mr. Granger sighed.

"No."

"I'm sorry?" Mrs. Granger asked.

"I'm not picking anyone up. I just got back from a business trip and was waiting for my family to get here. I was simply checking the time when you, sir, accosted me."

"_Accosted _you? Come now, Vernon. . . ."

"_Accosted me_, I say!" Mr. Dursley's chest heaved with the extent of his fury. Several children scurried away at his shout but he hardly noticed them. How dare these people lump him in with the rest of those freaks, as if he ran around in _cloaks _writing letters by _owl _and doing who-knew-what with those _things_ of theirs.

"You're lucky I don't call the police," he spat, mustache bristling. "I have no _idea _what you're talking about and I have _no idea _why you recognize me. But it is obvious you are very . . . very _sick_" – he barely stopped himself from saying _freakish_, let it never be said that Vernon Dursley was not sympathetic – "and I suggest you get help! Good day to you!"

_July 19, 1993 – 6:06 PM_

Mr. and Mrs. Granger could only gape at Mr. Dursley, shocked into silence. Pleased, Mr. Dursley gave them a final nod before turning on his heel to stomp off. He was already planning what he would say to Petunia.

_ Bloody lunatics, Petunia. 'Incredible,' they called it, can you believe it? And they're not one of _his _kind, either, they're just like you and me. Well, besides the fact that they're insane, I mean. I'm just glad I got out of there without being seriously harmed. If the boy's going to be this late, he can find his own way home. Maybe he can hitch a ride with those nutters. . . ._

"Erm . . . Uncle Vernon?"

And there he stood, six minutes late, that blasted bird in one hand and his trunk in the other. At Mr. Dursley's expression, he edged nervously toward the brunette girl on his right who the Grangers were currently swarming around. That must be their daughter, then, Herman or whatever her name was.

"Is this your friend, Hermione?" Mrs. Granger asked, glancing from her daughter to the boy. She seemed afraid to meet Mr. Dursley's eyes.

"Yes, this is Harry." The girl, too, seemed cautious, glancing between his nephew and Mr. Dursley himself as if waiting for an impending explosion. "And Ron's over there with his parents." She pointed toward a large group of gingers who Mr. Dursley vaguely recalled seeing last year.

"Well, why don't we go say hello? It would be nice to see them again," Mr. Granger suggested, far too enthusiastically for it to be considered genuine. He, too, could barely meet Mr. Dursley's eyes.

Um, sure. Will you be . . . alright, Harry?"

"'Course, you know me." They smiled at each other as if sharing a private joke. Mr. Dursley steamed, sure it was at his expense.

"Come on, boy, we don't have all day!" he barked. The Grangers flinched and the boy dragged his trunk forward, struggling to hold both items. Mr. Dursley didn't pause to help.

Freaks, every last one of them.

**. . .**

**A/N: **Hope you enjoyed it! Last chapter did not turn out nearly as well as I wanted it too but I am very pleased with this one. The characters for next chapter will be – drum roll, please! - Horace Slughorn and Rufus Scrimgeour!

If anyone wants a one-shot written about particular characters, let me know! Since graduating college and starting a full-time job that is not writing-related, I have been having problems with writer's block, and am trying to get back into it.

Let me know what you think in a review! Happy reading!

~Lizzy Lovegood


	17. Lemon

**Disclaimer: **Alas, all I own are copies of Jo Rowling's amazing books. I never wrote a word of them – but I did write this! But not the parts in _italics_, those are quotes from HBP.

**Characters: **Horace Slughorn and Rufus Scrimgeour

**Genres: **Angst/Drama

_Allons-y!_

**. . .**

**Lemon**

Crumbs and crisp packets littered the floor. A tin of crystallized pineapple, discarded for the time being, perched precariously on a side table, its sugary-sweet contents vying for position amongst the array of goodies – Chocolate Frogs and Pumpkin Pasties, cream cakes and puddings – enough to sustain one for weeks on end.

Clutching a delicate glass goblet in one shaking hand, Horace Slughorn poured himself a third glass of oak-matured mead. He downed it in one go, smacking his lips at the sweet taste, and grabbed a pastry to wash it down with.

_". . . you're quite right, it is my favorite. . . ."_

He gagged on the first bite. Tossing the tart to the ground – a large and balding baby – he spat and scraped frantically at his tongue like a man possessed. But it was no good – the sour, bitter taste lingered on his tongue; even combined with the taste of the flaky pastry, it was unmistakable.

_ Lemon. _Had he not specifically stated _no lemon_? Had he not made it clear that he wanted that foul fruit nowhere near his person? That damned house-elf – Dibby or whatever his name was – had squeaked and bowed until his long nose scraped the carpet, yet still, _still _– he glared at the uneaten tart – this had been allowed to slip through the cracks.

It was impossible to find good help these days, Horace mused, taking a large bite of pasty – lemon-free, thank Merlin. Reliable house-elves were as rare as pure-bloods these days, the last one he remembered had belonged to his mother, Scooty her name was, but both she and her mistress had been gone going on fifty years now. And neither, he knew, would have tolerated such blatant disregard for his wishes.

Indeed, he was of half a mind to leave this very instant. But, if not the elves, it was the Muggle girls he had taken on during his retirement for grocery shopping or dry cleaning (an ingenious Muggle invention he had never quite been able to recreate with a spell) with their thinly-veiled sarcasm and blank stares – either from apathy or a recently-performed Obliviation. Worse, though, was their silent judgment as they returned from the grocer's with bags upon bags of food, all to fuel his expensive lifestyle and expansive waistline. The elves at least were happy to help.

Horace popped the rest of the pasty into his mouth, swallowing with difficulty before reaching for a fourth glass of mead. He might as well stay. Travel was difficult on an old man like him and . . . well, if last summer were any indication, he would be doing a hell of a lot of it. Of course the situation could only have worsened since then, now that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named's only true threat to power was dead and buried – for nearly a fortnight now.

_"Sir, I wanted to ask you something. . . ."_

This time he stuffed an éclair, whole, into his mouth but was barely able to swallow past the bile that rose in his throat. That bitter taste – but how could there possibly be. . . ? Studiously inspecting the remaining pastries on the plate, there was no trace of the fruit to be found. He supposed that his particular éclair must have come in contact with it at some earlier point. Perhaps the elves had garnished a dish with an infusion of lemon and a few droplets had fallen onto his plate. Yes, that must be it; he had always had a very discerning palate.

Temporarily mollified, he took a decisive bite of a chocolate biscuit. Of course, this did not clear the elves of all wrongdoing – one mistake could possibly be ignored, swept under the rug but a _second _– and in the same day nonetheless!

"Dibby!" He spoke as if to thin air, a few crumbs falling from his mouth onto his velvet waistcoat. "Dibby, come here!" He spoke briskly, there was no need to shout – the elves were compelled to appear whenever their name was called - but it was best to let them know who was in charge.

The elf did not appear.

Frowning, Horace raised his voice slightly. "Dibby! Dibby, get down here!"

But, save for the discarded tart, the floor before him remained empty. With shaking hands, Horace poured himself a fifth glass of mead. So the elf had found some way to circumvent his orders, had it? They probably all thought it was a big joke, that now that the headmaster was gone, they could do whatever they pleased. Not on his watch.

"DIBBY!" he shouted. "DIBBY, I COMMAND YOU TO. . . ."

"Professor Slughorn?"

If Horace had been an athletic man, he would have jumped a foot; as it was, he choked on the wedge of pineapple he had just popped into his mouth and the visitor was forced to perform a quick anti-choking charm before any other pleasantries could be exchanged.

"Rufus!" Horace gasped as soon as he could breathe properly again. "Rufus, my boy, how good it is to see you!"

"You as well, Professor. . . ." Unruffled as ever, Rufus Scrimgeour cut an impressive figure, his dark hair and robes a sharp contrast against the emerald-green office, an impression only lessened by his slight limp.

"Horace, my boy, please. We'll have none of this _professor _business with one of my favorite students! A fine hand at Potions you were!"

Rufus attempted an ingratiating smile but, on his weary face, it more resembled a grimace. "I was alright."

"Nonsense! I saw something in you, my boy, I saw it the very first day. Why, after you took your NEWTs I went straight to the head of the Auror Office, oh, who was it then? Ah well, doesn't matter now. I went straight to him and told him, I told him, you don't hire Rufus Scrimgeour and you're making the biggest mistake of your career. Never say I don't look out for my own. . . ."

"That was very kind of you, Horace, I'm sure."

"Now, now, don't make me blush," Horace said, waving an airy hand; several crumbs fell from his sleeve and onto the floor. Then, with a sly smile, "But it paid off, didn't it? Now look at you – Minster of Magic! I always knew you'd go far, my boy, _always _knew it."

_". . . confidently expect you to rise to Minister of Magic within twenty years. . . ."_

Rufus did not attempt to hide his grimace this time. "My position is not an enviable one at the moment, I can assure you."

"Of course not, of course not. Can't even _imagine_. . . ." Face flushing – whether from embarrassment or alcohol, it was impossible to tell – Horace studied one of the silver serving trays for several long moments before selecting a pastry from it. He could all but feel the Minister's eyes boring into him.

"Can I offer you any refreshments, Minister?" Horace's hands shook as he brought the cake to his mouth and bit on air.

"Please, Horace, it's Rufus." His smile appearing more genial this time, the Minister placed a hand on the adjacent armchair before lowering himself into it.

"Biscuits? Pudding?" Horace offered, somewhat manically. "The house-elves just keep them coming. . . ."

"No, thank you."

"You're sure now? I even have some of Rosmerta's oak-matured mead here," – Horace warmed significantly to the topic – "have you ever tried it? Absolutely scrumptious! She offered the castle a lifetime supply after. . . ."

Abruptly, he snapped his mouth shut and watched with a dawning horror as something like glee spread across the Minister's face, an expression which he quickly masked with a semblance of guilt.

"Yes," he said, sighing deeply. "Yes, I imagine it must have been difficult for her. To be the one who. . . ."

"Quite difficult – yes!" Horace interjected suddenly, mopping at his brow. He reached for the silver platter of pastries just as the Minister snatched it away, taking several long moments to select a strawberry tart before speaking again.

"Not that it was her _fault_, of course. . . ."

Horace merely nodded. Eager though he was to break the pregnant silence that had settled over the room, more important was to steer the conversation out of these dangerous waters.

"Some cake, Minister?" he offered again, serving himself a gargantuan slice.

But Rufus was not to be dissuaded. "I suppose it eases her conscience, though. We all do what we can, eh?" He took a small bite of tart.

"I suppose." Horace licked a dab of chocolate frosting from his finger; they were nearing the crux of the conversation, he could feel it.

"And you, Horace" – the Minister's tone remained as kindly as ever, but Horace's blood froze nonetheless and the frosting turned sour on his tongue – "coming back the moment Albus asked you to when you were already well into your retirement. . . ."

"Just a favor for an old friend," Horace replied, as nonchalantly as he could. "We all do what we can." Abandoning his cake for the time being, he poured himself a glass of mead to wash the bitter taste from his mouth.

"Indeed. But you had already done so much. Why come back when there was already a Potions master employed here?"

"Snape was reappointed."

"But for what reasons? Did you and Albus ever discuss those?"

Horace sputtered, all but choking on a large sip of mead and soaking his robes with the golden liquid. "Are you saying – Minister, _Rufus_ my boy, are you saying that you . . . you can't think that _I _was involved!"

"Not at all, not at all!" Rufus offered Horace a napkin to blot away the spreading stain but the older man paid him no heed so stung was he by the accusation. Rufus sighed.

"Horace, as Minister in these troubling times, it is my job – my _responsibility _– to look into any and all odd circumstances. And your coming out of retirement after all this time – well, that is certainly an odd circumstance. I believe there was a reason for it."

"And what reason would that be?" Horace's chuckle sounded forced even to his own ears. "I can assure you, Minister" – _please, Professor, call me Rufus _– "I can _assure _you that I was involved in no shady dealings, none whatsoever!"

"Nothing shady, Horace, of course not!" Rufus hastened to assure him. "But Dumbledore is not a stupid man by any means. There must have been some reason for him to call on you now. . . ." He smiled encouragingly.

"None that I can think of," Horace said stiffly but his hands shook so much that the fork he held clattered against his plate. The taste on his tongue remained and he spat surreptitiously into a napkin; he would ensure that that Dibby or whatever was fired.

"You're sure now."

"Positive." But the clinking fork spoke the lie.

"Let's not play games, Horace," Rufus chided, as if speaking to an unruly toddler. "I've spoken to some of the students and staff already. I know that you and Albus were close in the past and I know that you befriended Harry Potter this year."

"Well, of course I took him under my wing! A brilliant study at Potions he is, just as good as his mother before him. . . ."

"You were close, then?"

"As a teacher and student, certainly!"

"And Harry felt he could come to you about things – problems he might be having, questions about the coursework?"

"Yes, of course."

"And outside the classroom? Would you ever meet up, chat about your personal lives?"

"Not that I can recall. . . ."

"You don't recall then, attending a little get-together along with Harry at Rubeus Hagrid's in late April?"

"What exactly is it you're accusing me of, Rufus? You know right well I would never harm. . . ."

"Oh, it's nothing like that _at all_, Horace. I am simply going off of what I was told – that you and Harry attended the . . . I believe Hagrid referred to it as a funeral?"

"Yes, one of his pets had just died." Horace hiccuped, bringing another glass of mead to his lips. "We were there for the send-off."

"I see. So after the 'send-off,' some . . . alcohol was consumed" – he glanced pointedly at the half-empty bottle between them – "and that, several hours later, Harry returned to the castle alone, intent on seeing the headmaster."

"They've always been close . . . from what I've observed, that is," Horace added hastily.

"So close that he would welcome a visit from Harry in the middle of the night?"

"Depending on circumstances. . . ."

"And what circumstances would those be? What information did you give Harry that night?"

"Information? What information?"

"Yes, _information_." Any remaining benevolence had entirely left the Minister's face, replaced by a determination etched deep into the lines of his face. "Information that Harry Potter then relayed to Albus Dumbledore. Information that, according to our most skilled Aurors, the headmaster departed with the next morning."

"I didn't. . . ."

"Information that, the Ministry believes, led to Dumbledore and Harry Potter's disappearance the evening of June sixteenth. _That _information."

"I didn't give him anything!" Horace cried. But a doubt, one that niggled at the very edges of his alcohol-soaked brain, spoke otherwise.

"_Be brave like my mother, Professor. . . ."_

Rufus scoffed. "I know very well you did, Professor. Why else were you on the run last summer, evading any and all authority?"

"I don't know. . . ."

"_Sir, I wondered what you know. . . ."_

"What were you afraid the Death Eaters would torture out of you? What were you afraid _we _would get out of you?" Almost viciously, the Minister tore at his strawberry tart; the fruit oozing from it looked very much like blood.

"Please, I don't. . . ." Horace's hand shook around the stem of his glass. He stuffed a cinnamon scone, whole, into his mouth, as if obscuring his speech would stop the endless barrage of questions.

As if it could silence the rising tide of his own memories. . . .

"What did you tell them, Horace? What is it you know?"

This time it was a blueberry muffin, but he could barely swallow over the dubious denials that filled his throat.

"_. . . I don't know anything – anything. . . ."_

Horace groaned, one hand clutching at his throat, the other at his stomach. He hacked and coughed, an insane attempt to expel the sour, lip-puckering taste that had invaded his taste buds. Dimly, he heard the Minister spouting compromises, threats, and compliments.

". . . I assure you, I don't enjoy this. . . ."

". . . a necessary evil. . . ."

". . . a wizard of your caliber. . . ."

He shoved sugary treats into his mouth by the handful but still – _still_ – it was all he could taste. All he could smell. Even his surroundings had a yellowish tinge to them.

"_. . . about Horcruxes. . . ."_

"Horace? Horace!"

Eyes and mouth clamped tight shut, Horace didn't answer, couldn't answer. Perhaps that way the world around him would disappear, a five-year-old's fantasy come true. How much easier that would make things. . . .

"Please. . . ."

". . . are you aware of how difficult this could make things for you. . . ."

". . . do you know how important this could be. . . ."

_". . . this is all hypothetical what we're discussing, isn't it. . . ."_

"What does it matter, Minister?" he finally asked in a whisper. "We're all dead anyway."

**. . .**

**A/N: **Hope you enjoyed – let me know in a review!


	18. Superhuman

Disclaimer: Don't own it. Wish I did. We good?

Characters: Cornelius Fudge and Lorcan D'eath

Genres: Drama/Crime

A/N: According to HP Wiki, Lorcan D'eath was a part-vampire singer born in 1964. The rest of his back-story and the rules for "part-vampires" (in Jo's universe) are entirely my own.

_Allons-y!_

. . .

Superhuman

"Where were you the night of August fifth?" Cornelius Fudge strode the length of his office – five steps one way, four the other – turning sharply on his heel each time he reached the opposing wall. Back straight, shoulders taut, mouth a thin line.

"Not talking, eh?" Eyes narrowed, he came to stand in front of the desk and, resting his hands on the polished wood, leaned forward. "We can play this whichever way you'd like. So, what's it gonna be? The easy way or . . . the _hard _way." He struck one fist, hard, against the wooden surface, wincing at the bruised knuckles it would undoubtedly cause.

He would have to work on that.

"The _easy way _or the _hard way_." Collapsing into a chair – now free of all hypothetical suspects – he continued to mutter stock phrases under his breath. "The _easy _way _or _the hard way. . . ." Inflections were important; they conveyed far more than mere words ever would, they let the subject know if you wanted to be their best friend or their worst nightmare.

Cornelius preferred the former. He supposed with a name like _Cornelius Fudge_ it was hard not to. Every time he introduced himself as _Junior Minister Fudge _– whether it be St. Mungo's or the scene of some disastrous duel – and was able to worm a smile from the victim – a six-year-old wrapped in bandages from the chest down or a woman nine months pregnant and covered in blood – it made his heart swell. Sometimes he wouldn't even include _Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes_. Didn't they already know?

In a dire situation, people would latch on to whatever they could to maintain sanity and if that handhold was something as simple as his last name then he was happy to give them that.

But that was all he could do. He had never been trained in Healing – of the body or the mind – and the same name that served him so well here had prevented him from any advancement into law enforcement.

He remembered it all too well. He had arrived the day of the preliminary examinations dressed in his best (and darkest) robes. They had seemed a serious lot to him, the least he could do was play the part. He had aced the physical portion but when it came time to sit down with the Head of the Department himself. . . .

It had been the name, he was sure of it. There he had sat in his neatly-pressed robes, chest puffed out, giddy at the idea of finally, _finally _achieving his dream. . . .

Pureblood though he was, Cornelius had always had a bit of an obsession with superheroes. As a child, he would sneak out to the corner comic book store whenever he could manage it. He was not able to purchase any – the cashier had given him an odd look when he had once handed her a gold Galleon to pay for the newest Superman – but would pore over the books as if they were some illicit substance. In his family, they were. He was sure his parents would have scoffed over the infantile plotlines and stationary pictures. But Cornelius didn't care about any of that. It never failed to astound him how ordinary people – _Muggles _even – could become something extraordinary, and all by doing nothing more than dashing into a telephone booth and donning some neon spandex.

Growing up, Cornelius's sole dream was to become someone as strong as Superman, as smart as Batman, as fast as the Flash. Someone who was respected for more than purity of blood. Someone who saved lives without discrimination and could leap tall buildings in a single bound – well, maybe that one was a bit out of reach. Someone like an Auror.

And those hopes had been dashed, all in one sentence.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Fudge, but we really don't think you're qualified for the position." But the Head's lips had twitched as he said it.

Cornelius remembered fighting to hide his wounded expression. He had waited years for this moment – had studied countless hours to pass the required OWLs and NEWTs, had pushed himself beyond his physical point of endurance – all to have it denied him when he was on the very cusp of achieving it.

"Perhaps we can find another position that would suit you better," the Head suggested.

Cornelius could only shrug.

And so he had been shunted sideways into the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes, little more than a glorified intern.

Initially, Cornelius had seen the job as nothing more than a corporate death sentence. He had loathed his coworkers, the paperwork, and the early-morning meetings. What was the point to it all? He wasn't doing anything _important_.

That was before the explosion.

At least that's what they'd told the Muggles it was, but Cornelius had seen the truth, raw as an open wound. He had seen the innocents – wizards and Muggles alike – levitated away on stretchers. He had seen the Dark wizards – Death Eaters they called themselves – escorted away in chains, eyes glinting fiercely at him under all that blood and gore. He had held a woman's hand as she died.

The ongoing battle between good and evil had left a mess behind and it had been Cornelius's job to clean it up. It was his job to start anew out of the wreckage, to take that _one more step _when no one else wanted to.

After all, what hero didn't face adversity? Where would Superman be if not for the destruction of Krypton? What would Batman have done if his parents weren't murdered? Even if he were able to help just one person, save just one life, then Cornelius would endure all the paperwork in the world.

He would not be a super_hero_, he would be super_human_.

And so Cornelius had shed his dark robes and serious expression, trading them in instead for deep purple cloaks, orange trousers, and his trademark lime-green bowler hat, though none of it in spandex. One drunken night, he toyed with the idea of emblazoning a large _CF _on his chest – if Superman had it, why couldn't he? - but was ultimately discouraged by the poundage he had gained since joining the Department.

Keen for him to live up to his name, he was constantly plied with sweets and baked goods by coworkers and civilians alike and he was too kindhearted (and weak-willed) to refuse. After all, he would like to meet the man who could turn down homemade fudge offered by the voluptuous Molly Prewett herself. A pity she was married. . . .

Cornelius rose quickly, almost _superhumanly _fast, through the office hierarchy and, within a year, had been promoted to Junior Minister, a highly-coveted position among his coworkers.

Propping his feet up on the desk, Cornelius stretched luxuriously, relishing his success. His superior – Senior Junior Minister Thomas Eccleston – had even hinted that, if he kept this up, in a few years he could be up for the top job.

Head of the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes – the very idea made him dizzy. That Law Enforcement lot – Dawlish and Proudfoot and Savage, all of them – wouldn't be laughing then, not when he was the one controlling the Magic Reversal Squad and the Excuse Committee. Not when he was the one dictating how many Trauma Wizards they could afford to send.

He chuckled to himself – Aurors couldn't deal with people if their life depended on it – he had met several at the last Christmas party and had barely exchanged three words – their job was to rush in and _create _the mess, not clean it up. Wouldn't they be desperate for him, then?

Of course, he wouldn't be a tyrant. That went without saying. He was far too softhearted for that. _Sweet-hearted_, his wife would have said.

But with great power came great responsibility.

Cornelius opened a bright crimson folder left on his desk, glancing over the papers inside. "The easy way or the _hard way_ . . . the _easy way _or the _hard way_," he continued to mutter, picking up his bowler hat and spinning it in his hands, faster and faster. The guy certainly didn't have a good track record.

This, this was the worst part – even worse than the paperwork. He was no good at this. He liked helping people, giving the innocents a hand up, not condemning the criminals to the depths of Azkaban. Cornelius had never visited the prison but even the stories he had been told gave him nightmares, he couldn't imagine playing any part in sentencing another human being to the place.

Then again, this guy wasn't exactly human.

"Hey, Fudgey." Arnie Peasegood, one of the newest recruits, stuck his head into the cramped office. "Blood-sucker's ready for you."

"I'm coming, Arnie." Cornelius resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Weren't they beyond such juvenile name-calling? Setting his lime-green bowler hat firmly on top of his head, he set off down the corridor.

"He's in Room B, isn't he?"

"Yep." Arnie nodded. "We made him wait for a bit, sweat it out, you know?" It wouldn't have surprised Cornelius if Arnie, too had harbored a deep desire to become an Auror. His expression was as eager as a child's as he uttered the phrase, as if they were play-acting.

Cornelius frowned. "You didn't have to do that."

"Why shouldn't he?" Arnie snorted. "He murdered innocent people. I think we can afford to inconvenience him a bit."

"We don't _know _he did. He was just a . . . a witness to the attack, and we need to know what to tell the Muggles, don't we?" Cornelius could hear the doubt in his own words. "That's why they sent him here instead of over to Law Enforcement."

Arnie only snorted again. "He'll be on his way there soon enough." Barely out of Hogwarts, Arnie was as cynical as they came; Cornelius supposed that when your job involved blurring the line between fantasy and reality it may do the same for you.

Cornelius didn't reply, taking his wand out to tap the door of the interrogation room. The door clicked as it unlocked.

"Be careful in there, Fudgey," Arnie said, sure to pitch his voice so the figure inside couldn't fail to hear.

"I will, Arnie." Cornelius shot him a quelling look and, with a deep breath, shut the door in his face. From the door's small window, he watched Arnie pull his black robes around himself and sweep away in a motion that would have made Severus Snape proud.

_I wonder. . . ._

"Does your friend fancy himself a comedian?"

Cornelius started involuntarily at the unexpected noise. "I do apologize for him Mr. - er, I'm sorry how do you. . . ?"

"_D'eath_," the vampire replied. "It rhymes with _teeth_." Sweeping a strand of dark hair away from his gaunt face, he flashed his own fangs in a wide – and somewhat menacing – smile.

"Thank you." Cornelius fought hard to hide his stutter. "I hope you don't judge us all by Arnie, Mr. D'eath."

"As long as you extend me the same courtesy, Mr. . . ?" The vampire inclined his head, inviting a response.

"Fudge," Cornelius responded. "Cornelius Fudge. Junior Minister, Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes."

D'eath arched an elegant eyebrow. "Quite a title."

Cornelius shrugged modestly as he drew out a chair to sit across from the vampire. "Nothing compared to yours. Here you are a rock-star and barely out of school!"

He received no reply. One could have heard a pin drop in the silence that entombed the room.

Cornelius frowned. He wasn't supposed to do that. He was supposed to respond with some sarcastic quip and Cornelius would then use that to develop a rapport. D'eath would tell him what had _really _happened and, before he knew it, would be back on the street – or stage, as it were – again with nothing to worry about but the release of his newest album.

The easy way, not the hard way.

"I hear Celestina Warbeck even wants to interview you!" Cornelius scanned D'eath's expression for a response but received no hints. "But why settle for that old bag, eh? I bet the women just _throw _themselves at you, bet you're taking hearts everywhere you go!"

He immediately regretted his choice of words.

"I did not kill those people, Mr. Fudge."

"Of course not, no one's saying anything. . . ." Cornelius flushed and fiddled with the brim of his bowler hat.

"Your friend did."

Trying hard not to show his shock that D'eath had overheard their conversation – what did he expect, he was a _vampire _– Cornelius adopted a firmer tone. "Well, if you heard that you must have heard me say you _didn't_."

D'eath raised one long, pale finger. "No, you didn't. You said you didn't _know _I had done it. That suggests that some part of you believes I _did _do it."

"That's why we're here: to get your side of the story," Cornelius said, trying his best to ignore the latter comment. "To see what you saw that night."

"Am I a witness or a suspect, then?"

"For our purposes, a witness."

"So I am a witness who is not allowed to leave. Or am I mistaken?"

"I do apologize, Mr. D'eath, but for someone – someone like you, certain precautions must be taken. . . ."

"Someone like a half-vampire, you mean."

"_Half_-vampire?"

"Half-vampire," D'eath confirmed. He gestured at the folder Cornelius held, several inches thick. "Or did your copious notes not inform you of that?"

"No," Cornelius said, flustered. "No, they didn't. I do apol-. . . ."

"_Do _stop apologizing." D'eath rolled his eyes. His pupils rolled back in their sockets for a moment and Cornelius fought back a shudder. "It does not matter that you didn't know I was a half-vampire, we are not going to come kill you in your sleep. What _does _matter is that you listen to me now."

"I am trying my best to listen to you, Mr. D'eath."

Again, D'eath raised a finger. "You are not. You are blinded by your prejudice. What would you say, I wonder, if I told you I was framed?"

Cornelius had not expected _that_. "I would tell you to talk to Law Enforcement; they are far more well-equipped to. . . ."

"Oh, I am sure I will be talking to them eventually," said D'eath. "But would they believe me if I told them?"

"If you could show them evidence, I'm sure. . . ."

"My kind doesn't leave evidence, Mr. Fudge.

"Your kind?"

"My father's kind."

"Well, of course there's evidence. There were bodies all over the street!"

"No." D'eath smiled sadly. "There isn't. They have been alive far too long to make careless mistakes. Wait and see, any . . . _marks _on the bodies will lead back to me."

"But your own _father_? Why would he. . . ?"

"You don't believe me." It wasn't a question.

"I – I don't know what to believe at the moment. I just want to hear. . . ."

"Let me guess: _my side of the story_," D'eath mimicked. "Very well.

"My mother was human, some vampire groupie that was addicted to the bite. She got pregnant by accident – fertility is rare in vampires but it can happen – and somehow coerced my father into staying with her. Maybe he loved her, I don't know." He spoke as if the word was a foreign concept to him. "According to my father, she died in childbirth. Maybe he hates me for that, maybe he believes I tied him down unnecessarily. Either way, he never stopped.

"As I was only part vampire, I was never as fierce as any of my – well, what my father called my _blood-brothers_. But it didn't stop my father from trying. I heard bedtime stories of how witches and wizards slaughtered our kind and, when that proved fruitless, he would beat me. When he really wanted to torture me, he would let the pack feed off of me until I would pass out."

"I'm so sorry." Cornelius didn't know what to say; he felt five years old again, curled in the corner of the comics shop and sniffling over a character's tragic back-story – villain or victim, it didn't matter.

"It was a long time ago. I'm not immortal," he added dryly, spotting Cornelius's expression. "I will live longer than a normal human but nowhere near as long as your average vampire. Still, the memories have grown distant. I escaped as soon as I could – at thirteen. I did not have the money to attend school so I hit the road. I could travel during daylight when my father and his _brothers _couldn't and I knew they wouldn't venture into highly-populated areas.

"Eventually, I was hired as a busboy at a pub in Godric's Hollow; that was where they noticed my voice for the first time. The rest, as they say, is history." He shrugged in mock-modesty before continuing. "They only caught up to me recently."

"When you say recently. . . ."

"Within the past few months or so." D'eath nodded at the thick folder. "That should explain most of _those_, I think?"

Cornelius flipped through the pages. Petty theft, sexual assault, even a count of manslaughter. In all the cases, the victims had been unable to identify their attackers but had sworn they had seen fangs. In all the cases, D'eath had been performing nearby and had had no alibi, most likely due to. . . .

"Public intoxication?" The charge – petty though it was – took up half the folder by itself; D'eath had been drinking long before his father ever caught up with him.

"I drink to forget," said D'eath and Cornelius felt that inner five-year-old stir again. "Maybe I shouldn't have. It made me careless. I was famous, I thought I was safe, I thought they would never come near me again. After the first attack – they fed off of a woman, one of my fans actually, and left her naked in the street –"He spoke so dispassionately that chills ran down Cornelius's spine. "I hired a bodyguard, the best there was. I thought it was only a matter of time, but they never came after me. It took me a while – as I said, I drink to forget – but I finally realized they were harming me by proxy.

"They were killing the people I had found sanctuary with, people I had thought I was one of. But I'm not, am I?" He gestured to the folder again. "There was never anything to stake me to wall, as it were, on any of those other charges yet they are still used against me."

"We can change that," Cornelius said earnestly. "Please, Mr. D'eath, I can help you. What did you see, smell, _hear _that night?"

"I told you, Mr. Fudge. There was no evidence."

"Then how do you. . . ?"

"_I know_," D'eath said fiercely. "It was them."

"Alright," said Cornelius. "Alright. Let's – let's just go and tell Law Enforcement what you just told me." He pulled a quill from his pocket and began to scribble a message to Scrimgeour; he wasn't the Head, but was definitely the most _human _of the lot.

"No."

"Just try. . . ."

"No, they won't believe me. _You _don't believe me."

"Of course I believe you – that's why we're going to talk. . . ."

"If you believed me, you wouldn't bother going through Law Enforcement."

"Well, I'm afraid it's the _law _to do so," Cornelius snapped.

"You wouldn't wait for their say-so," D'eath continued as if Cornelius had not spoken. "You would march up there and tell them I'm innocent."

"That isn't how it works. . . ."

"Then how _does _it work?"

"You have to show evidence – even one thing!" Cornelius shouted. "One thing that could put doubt into their minds. That's why we, _they_ couldn't nail. . . ."

"Stake," corrected D'eath with a twisted smile.

". . . you for those other things! There was always a witness of some sort and they couldn't say for certain that it was you! You are innocent until _proven _guilty!"

"Really?" Again, D'eath arched an eyebrow. "It seems to me that I am guilty until proven innocent. Here I am, either a suspect or a witness – you do not seem to have decided which yet – being questioned for a crime I have not yet been _proven _to be involved in. And here you are, Mr. Fudge, telling me I must produce some sort of evidence or I will be imprisoned."

"With your track record. . . ." Taking off his bowler hat, Cornelius began to spin it between his hands. "Er, your _alleged _track record. . . ."

"A track record of crimes I have not been officially charged with. All because I was in the wrong place at the wrong time as it were."

"And – and, well. . . ."

"What?"

"The – the bite marks. . . ." The bowler hat spun faster; Cornelius stared at it, a lime-green blur.

"Indeed," D'eath replied. "The bite marks. What would you say, Mr. Fudge, if I told you that I am not required to take blood to survive? It is as much a choice for me as that extra slice of cake is a choice for you. I only indulge during certain . . . _carnal _activities and then only with the consent of my partner.

"Would that qualify as the _evidence _you are so keen to get?" he continued, voice growing progressively louder. "Or will the medical examiner find evidence of sexual assault along with the bite marks? Did I rape those women and then murder them? Did I rape the man, too? Or did I murder them and _then _rape them? After all, I'm not _human_, am I? I can't be expected to subscribe to such moralistic notions. Do I get off on necrophilia – I'm half-dead already, it makes sense, doesn't it? Do I. . . ."

"Stop!" Cornelius shouted, finally meeting D'eath's eyes again, and had to stop himself from flinching. D'eath, though still sitting, had leaned forward so that his fangs – bared now – were clearly visible. "Just . . . just stop. I want to _help _you. Can't you see that?"

All Cornelius could see was the scarlet snow. One of the women had tried to escape, a trail of crimson marked her path.

". . . scare you?"

Dried blood had streaked the thighs of another.

"What?"

The sole male in the group had died protecting the third woman. His fiancee, if the diamond ring was any indication.

"Do I scare you?"

It didn't matter, he had gotten them anyway.

_He?_

"No." It was a lie, they both knew it. Then, "Do _I_ scare _you_?"

"No." The truth this time. "You sadden me." The ferocity had drained from his face, the fangs – both literal and figurative – had been sheathed. Several long minutes passed in silence. They both watched the bowler hat twirl round and round.

"What would you say," D'eath asked finally, "if I told you I killed those people, Mr. Fudge?" He looked _old_, hundreds of years older than his scant seventeen years, a creature who had lived so much longer than he was meant to. Cornelius wondered how much longer his vampire genetics would give him.

"The man taunted me." He didn't take the time to wait for Cornelius's response but spoke all at once, words spilling over each other as if he was anxious to get them all out before he forgot them. "They were Muggles but I didn't care. What I was wearing, they told me I looked like a pansy. The girls – they were pretty girls, I enjoyed them immensely before they died – they laughed with him. They deserved it. They all deserved it." He laughed, Cornelius thought it was supposed to sound maniacal but it came out forced – as if he were nothing more than an actor in a play.

"Well, Mr. Fudge?" the vampire asked. "Do you believe me?"

. . .

A/N: Wow, longest SB chapter yet! Let me know what you thought in a review!


End file.
